


Holding the Stick

by StarWitness42



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F, F/M, Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 80,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarWitness42/pseuds/StarWitness42
Summary: Alec Lightwood has dreamed of hoisting Lord Stanley since he was eight. It's in his blood. He's spent the last five years trying to make that dream a reality, only managing to fall short each time.Until a scandal leads to a multi-team trade that sends Magnus Bane his way. One of the top performing wingers in the league. An up and coming star.And the most handsome man Alec has ever met.He's doomed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laelipoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laelipoo/gifts).



> So I was sitting here this weekend, patiently waiting for the plot for the third story in the Anything verse to come into focus, when apparently my old days in hockey fandom came back to bite me in a bunny for a Malec hockey AU. I made the mistake of discussing it with Laelipoo, and here I am, writing snarky, sexy, Malec as hockey players fic. I think my mind needed an angst break before it dove into "The Only Thing."
> 
> But so yeah! Here's some hockey fic! I'm posting it because I know that if I do, I will be more likely to continue/finish it, and it was so fun just writing this that I REALLY want to finish it. Hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> Also, the title is the legit name of my favorite penalty in hockey. Because, for those of you who don't know, hockey is the gayest sport to ever gay. Man, I love hockey!
> 
> Oh also, sorry to anyone reading this that lives in Winnipeg. I don't really think you're bigots!

“Hey ass wipe, turn on ESPN.”

 

The words drift to Alec’s ear before he even figures out that he’s conscious, if you can call it that. His phone clutched to his face as he silently regrets his decision to leave the ringer on when he fell asleep.

 

As captain of the Blackhawks, he feels the need to be on call at all times, just in case someone needs him. But sometimes he just wishes he could check out for twelve hours and leave his moron teammates alone to figure out their own crap.

 

He’s almost afraid to check the time. Even through his blackout curtains, he can instinctively tell that it’s still dark outside. Which means he was probably in REM when Jace decided to be an idiot and call him at half past asshole o’clock.

 

Who’s he kidding? Jace never actually has to _decide_ to be an idiot. It just comes naturally to him. One of his many gifts.

 

“It’s… three o’clock in the morning,” he groans as he pulls his phone away from his face long enough to see the time, his eyes burning at the light. “Why the hell are you up so early?”

 

“Not up early. Haven’t gone to sleep yet. Now would you _please_ stop fucking around and turn on your damn TV?”

 

“Jace,” he says warningly, but he’s already starting to sit up in his bed. Not because he wants to, but because he knows Jace won’t let this go until he completely and utterly bends to his will.

 

Fifteen years ago, Alec helped a small, eight year old Jace off a frozen pond when his skate blade cracked in half, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. They even managed to get drafted by the same team, thanks in large part to the fact that Alec’s parents own said team. But sometimes Alec wishes he could go back to that day and tell the younger version of himself to just leave Jace on the ice, save himself a few thousand headaches.

 

“If this is another one of your wacky sports mishaps things, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I _don’t care_. It’s not funny to see guys get hit in the balls on repeat.”

 

“I swear, Lightwood, if you don’t turn on your fucking TV right fucking now I’m coming the fuck up there and busting down your fucking door and doing it for you.”

 

His voice is sharper than normal, and though Jace’s vocabulary is pretty limited, and full up mostly of curse words, that was a lot of _fuckings_ for one sentence, even for him. Which means his interest is actually a little piqued here.

 

“All right, all right, I’m doing it, just settle down. Coach G will kill me if you have an aneurysm.”

 

“Ha, ha, fucking hilarious, do you have it on yet?”

 

Alec grabs his remote and flicks on the TV, not even bothering to change the channel because ESPN is pretty much the only thing he watches these days.

 

In the off season, he has a life. Sort of. He’ll watch movies and stuff, though. Maybe the occasional cooking show. But during the season, it’s all hockey, all the time.

 

“It’s on,” he says as he blinks out at forty-two inches of high definition, trying to adjust to the light flooding his room. The one that was blissfully pitch black and dead silent a few minutes ago before his best friend and linemate decided to ruin the one shot he had at a full night of sleep this week.

 

It’s an off day today. Alec was going to sleep straight until ten, maybe even eleven. It was going to be great.

 

“Okay, shut up and listen then.”

 

Alec’s shuts up and listens, but mostly because he’s too tired to speak.

 

The story is something about basketball, which Jace knows Alec hates. But before he has a chance to bitch about it, the news cycles back around to what Jace was evidently waiting for, judging by the way he hisses a preemptive, “Shut up, this is it,” before the reporter speaks.

 

“Back to our top news story of the night. Just breaking from the NHL, Winnipeg Jets All Star left winger Magnus Bane was filmed outside a New York club tonight in an… intimate embrace with another man.”

 

The reporter stumbles over her word choice, like even she’s not sure what propriety would have her call it as the screen cuts to the footage. And Alec actually feels like he’s going to be sick as he watches Bane pressing some blond dude up against a wall in an alley.

 

He can feel his anger rising, can feel it pressing through his veins, hot on the back of his neck. And it’s not like he even knows Bane outside of what he’s seen on the news, or in person on the ice. But the fact that freaking ESPN thinks it’s any of their damn business to be showing something like _this_ and calling it _news_ is beyond him.

 

It’s Alec’s worst nightmare, live and in color – being outed like this, being _caught_. But even though a part of him is feeling grateful that he wasn’t the one being filmed, an even bigger part is still seething over the fact that _anyone_ was.

 

“Word around the rumor mill is that they’re gonna try and move him fast,” Jace says almost solemnly, like he knows how much this must be eating at Alec. And for a minute, Alec had completely forgotten Jace was even there, on the other end of the phone clutched so tightly in Alec’s fist the metal groans.

 

“You know, before the locals can sharpen their pitchforks and shit.”

 

Damn it. Bane plays in Winnipeg. And though Alec has only been there the few dozen times the Hawks have played the Jets since the franchise returned, he knows exactly what Jace is talking about.

 

“Think we might get him?”

 

It takes a few seconds for Alec to realize that Jace just asked him a direct question.

 

“Huh?”

 

“I asked if you thought we might get him. Because… you know… no offense to Raj, but it would be really fucking sweet to have someone actually competent on our left wing. Just saying.”

 

He’s trying not to sound excited, Jace is, like he knows it’s complete garbage for him to hope that Bane’s entire world crashing around his feet could be some sort of benefit to them. And it’s a testament to their friendship that he’s even holding back at all, because Jace has been dreaming of a proper left winger to play alongside them ever since they set skates in the NHL.

 

“I don’t know,” Alec says, and it’s shocking, how dead he sounds as the news cycles back to some basketball crap that always seems to give Alec a headache. But the migraine forming just behind his eyes isn’t from that and he knows it.

 

He can’t get the image out of his head. The way Bane’s hands had been all over the guy, the neon blue streak in his faux hawk bright beneath the streetlights. The way he’d pressed into him, pinning him to brick. And the way some asshole with an iPhone thought it was his right to film it all and sell it to the highest bidder.

 

There is no way in hell Alec is getting back to sleep tonight.

 

~*~

 

Magnus really should have known when he ran into Camille at the club that something bad was going to happen. She’d had that look in her eyes, the predatory one, _bloodthirsty_ like Magnus was the blue plate special. But it feels like it’s been centuries since he’s cared even the tiniest bit for her. And so regardless of the fact that she’d had her hand down his pants inside of ten minutes, he’d made a triumphant stand against her unwanted sexual advances.

 

And then she went and called one of her paparazzi buddies and made a hard push to ruin his life.

 

The joke’s on her, though. Because right at this very moment, he’s on a plane to Chicago, having just been traded to the team everyone and their mother has picked to win the Cup this year. And it may not be New York (Magnus _adores_ New York, he’d marry it if he could, all white tuxes and moaning violins and _everything_ ), but Chicago is a far, blissful cry from The Peg. And so suck it, Camille. Thanks for the favor!

 

Granted, the experience has not been _entirely_ advantageous. The press conference he’d had to embark on at six am today – an ungodly hour where no one should be awake if they are not three sheets to some wind – was not a highlight of his life. But when your mom kills herself when you’re ten and your alcoholic stepfather tries to beat you to death shortly thereafter, you learn to smile your way through most rough patches in life.

 

He’d made sure to wear extra eyeliner for the occasion. Because why shouldn’t coming out be a party?

 

It had actually been rather humorous, the way the reporters had tried to skate around the questions like they were afraid to come right out and ask him what they wanted. And it’s ridiculous, to think that where he likes to stick it at night has anything to do with his scoring talents _elsewhere_. But he’d played along because he is, after all, a professional.

 

And also because Cat, his best-friend-slash-agent, had warned him in no uncertain terms that if he “went off” on anyone, he’d severely jeopardize his ability to play the sport he loved long before he realized both men and women struck his fancy.

 

So he’d been nice. And polite. And as forthcoming as he thought his dear, sweet grandmother would be able to stand, given the way he knew she’d be watching with her lovingly open heart the same way she’s watched everything he’s done since his grandparents took him in upon his stepfather’s arrest. And then he had walked out of the press conference with his head held high because if there’s one thing Magnus Bane _isn’t_ , it’s ashamed.

 

He is, however, quite tired at the moment, given the sleep he failed to acquire last night. But he still manages to smile at the kind limo driver sent to pick him up from the airport, because Magnus has known enough people in all areas of the service profession to be well acquainted with how much it sucks to come into contact with a surly customer.

 

The ride to the United Center is a long one, given that it’s a weekday and Chicago is terrible for traffic. And so he has actually managed to fall asleep by the time they arrive.

 

The driver is kind in the way he wakes him, a gentle tug on his jacket – a thick, black, wool-lined leather biker number Cat had given him as a gift when he’d complained last winter that parkas were ghastly but Winnipeg was too cold and trying to kill him. But Magnus is awake again, awake _too much_ today, and on the move, which is actually quite fine with him.

 

The quicker he gets this meeting over with, the quicker he can find a hotel. A bed. Some _rest_.

 

And possibly some alcohol.

 

He’s expecting the owners to be there, perhaps the GM, which is why he’s actually a bit shocked that he’s only met by two people currently freezing their asses off outside the stadium, one of whom he recognizes from fifty yards out.

 

It would be hard to miss the 6’3” literal _man tree_ of Alec Lightwood, captain of the Blackhawks, three-time Selke winner, and all around surprised-he’s-not-actually-Canadian Nice Guy. Mostly because he is likely taller than ninety-five percent of the people he’s near on a daily basis, but also because, admittedly, he is strikingly gorgeous. If not a little bland for Magnus’ tastes.

 

Being both on scoring lines, he hasn’t had to face Lightwood much on the ice over the years. But the few times Lightwood has been double-shifted in games where the points have truly mattered, close to the playoffs, Magnus has not been a fan of the results.

 

You don’t win the best defensive forward trophy three times in your five years in the league because you’re soft on the opponent.

 

Magnus likes to score, but Lightwood is the type of person that makes that particular job incredibly difficult. Only now they are teammates – perhaps even _linemates_ if the rumors are true – and so Magnus is smiling from ear to ear when he reaches out to shake Lightwood’s hand.

 

It is a terse handshake, the kind one would expect from a business partner in a tacky three-piece suit. And there is a slight flicker in the back of Magnus’ mind regarding how entertaining it would be to try and make someone like Alec Lightwood smile. Or, dare he say it, _laugh_.

 

“We’re really glad to have you on the team,” Lightwood says, his tone a direct match to his handshake like he bought them both at a tag sale at Macy’s. “Though, you know, we’re sorry about how… about what happened… about-”

 

“About the fact that I was caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar?” Magnus interrupts because as endearing as it is to see someone as gigantic as Lightwood stammer, he really does need sleep more than he needs entertainment. “I’m more upset about how the night ended, to be perfectly honest with you. The guy might have been a ten as far as looks were concerned, but he was an abysmal four in bed. Talk about false advertising.”

 

He doesn’t know why he says that, why he’s saying anything right now. But the way Lightwood sort of chokes out this… well, Magnus will just say it, this _adorable_ little sputter makes him want to both continue talking and never speak again at the exact same time.

 

It’s a strange cocktail, one far more satisfying than any of the ones he imbibed last night.

 

He really must remember to send Camille a thank you basket.

 

“I’m Luke Garroway,” the other member of their little party interrupts, reaching out a hand to Magnus and shaking it in a way that is far friendlier than what Lightwood had offered. “But you can just call me Coach G.”

 

“Well, Coach G, I must say that I was a huge fan of yours, back in the day,” Magnus says honestly. “Your line for the Rangers during that Cup streak, with Valentine and Starkweather? It was the stuff dreams are made of. Literally. Like cotton candy mixed with well aged scotch.”

 

Luke laughs, but all Lightwood does is pull his arms behind his back, grabbing one wrist and puffing his chest out like a soldier “at ease.” And Magnus wasn’t technically _trying_ to make the statue crack a smile just yet, but something about the resolute expression on Lightwood’s face screams the words _game on_ already.

 

He has only known the guy for three minutes, give or take a few dozen seconds, and it has already seemingly broken something loose inside of Magnus. He must truly be deeply exhausted.

 

“Well, we’re a huge fan of yours _now_ ,” Garroway says through the smile still spread across his face. “And while, as Alec said, we are deeply sorry for any pain this experience might be causing you, we’re glad you’re here. And we’d be more than happy to kick the ass of anyone that needs kicking on your behalf, should the need arise.”

 

Something warm pools in Magnus’ stomach at Luke’s words, and at the way Lightwood’s posture tenses when Luke says them, like he’s preparing himself for battle on Magnus’ behalf. Which is strange, given that they don’t know him from Adam. But it’s heartwarming just the same, and it makes Magnus think for just a fleeting moment that beyond all the bluster, eyeliner, and painted on smiles, things might actually turn out okay here.

 

“While I am truly grateful for that offer, I am also fairly capable of kicking ass on my own, should that need that you suggested arise. But thank you. It’s nice to know I’ll be on a team that has my back, so to speak.”

 

“You’re damn right we will,” Lightwood says, his voice heated in a way that startles Magnus, given the cold rigidity he’d been emanating up until this point. And there is something in his eyes when Magnus looks up at him again that makes every single muscle in his body tense.

 

It is resolve, determination, but it is something else as well. Something _darker_. And Magnus has no idea what that something _is_ , but he would damn sure like to find out.

 

~*~

 

Sometimes Alec wonders if Jace has ESP. Either that or a private detective that he pays to follow Alec around every minute of his day. Because literally no sooner does Alec start walking away from the meeting with Bane than his phone rings.

 

“Is there a drone over my head?” Alec says by way of a greeting.

 

“What?” Jace bites back at him.

 

“A drone? With a camera? Or should I be looking for a guy with a long trench coat hiding in the bushes?”

 

“Are you drunk?” Jace asks, but the question just makes Alec sigh as he rubs his free hand hard over his face.

 

“I’m asking if you’re stalking me, Jace. How did you know I just left the meeting?”

 

“Oh. Yeah. Well I didn’t, technically. I just tried to figure out, mathematically, how long the meeting would take based on how little you like to speak with your fellow human beings and how long it takes Coach G to thoroughly charm the father pants off anyone he comes into contact with. I came up with now. So I made a good guess then?”

 

“How can someone that can’t even count to ten come up with a mathematical formula for something like this?”

 

“I can count to ten, fuck nut. I’m a genius, remember? They’re gonna make a movie about me someday. Like _A Beautiful Mind_ only mine will also have the subtitle of _Oh Yeah, and A Beautiful Ass, Too_.”

 

Alec groans. It’s his standard reaction to pretty much anything that pukes out of Jace’s mouth. Which means he spends roughly half of his existence in a near perpetual state of groaning.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“You know what I want, Alec. How did it go? Was he… like… everything we dreamed?”

 

Alec hates him. He really, _really_ hates him.

 

“I don’t know what _you_ were dreaming, but he was fine. He looked like he got even less sleep than I did last night, which is a feat in and of itself. And he smelled faintly of bourbon, which, given what just happened to him, I can’t say as I blame the guy. But he was… fine.”

 

The word feels funny in his mouth, like it doesn’t even come close to what Alec wants to say. But Jace isn’t fishing right now and so Alec’s not about to just jump into the boat by telling him that his skin had tingled from the moment Bane let go of his hand until the moment less than a minute ago when Alec was able to practically skitter back towards his SUV. The one he’s finally ducking into, escaping the cold that had bit through to his skin because Luke had the genius idea to meet Bane at the curb and Alec had the slightly less genius idea to not wear a proper coat when he left his condo this morning.

 

“So you think he’ll work then? On our line? Because chemistry is important, you know. And… well… everyone loves me, that’s a given, but you? It’s not always easy for people to warm up to you. I mean, just look at how long it took Raj to be comfortable around you, and-”

 

“ _Jace_ ,” Alec practically hisses in an attempt to stem the tide of Jace’s most recent ramble.

 

“I just don’t want you to fuck this up by being…”

 

“By being what?” Alec asks when Jace trails off.

 

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, because you know I love you like my own blood, but… I don’t want you to fuck this up by going all _you_ all over it.”  

 

“And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?” he asks as he cranks his heat up to its highest setting in the hopes of blowing through the cold air in the engine.

 

“It means you need to be nice to him. And before you say _I’m nice to everyone_ , no, Alec, you’re really not. You tolerate the people you have to, and you’re nice to, like, me and Iz and Lydia when you have to be, but we _really_ need a good left winger if we want to win the Cup this year and _I really want to win the fucking Cup this year so please just be nice to Bane okay I’ll leave you alone now bye_.”

 

Jace hangs up at that, before Alec can respond to any of his horrendously inaccurate claims about Alec’s temperament. But given the way his mind immediately strays to how nice it might feel to punch Jace in the face _really hard_ right now, he’s forced to admit that he may have a point. A very small point, like the kind of thing you need one of those high powered microscopes to even see it, but a point nonetheless.

 

Besides, Alec really wants to win a Cup too. Like, more than he’s ever wanted anything else in his entire life. So tingling skin aside, he makes a promise to himself, right here and now, that he’ll do his absolute best to make Magnus Bane feel as comfortable as humanly possible, if only for the sake of the hockey gods.

 

And if there’s one thing you need to know about Alec Lightwood, it’s that he _never_ breaks his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd add some primers as I go through this fic for anyone that doesn't follow hockey. Hockey positions: 
> 
> In hockey, there are three positions: Forwards, Defensemen, and Goalies. Goalies are self-explanatory, but there are three forwards on every line (a left winger, a right winger, and a center who takes the face-offs and generally directs the play), and two defensemen on every pair (a right and a left). So at any given time, there are six people on the ice for each side (one goalie, three forwards, two D-men). 
> 
> Each team has four forward lines. Usually two are dedicated to just scoring - the "top line" that gets to play the most minutes, and the "second line." A third line is generally dedicated to defense and is thrown on the ice when the other team's best lines are out (they're called the checking line because their goal is mainly to check the other team into submission). And then a fourth "energy line" plays the least minutes and is filled with the hodgepodge of the rest of the team. 
> 
> Each team then has three defense pairings (defensemen play more minutes than forwards because they don't have to skate as much, generally staying closer to the middle of the ice for each side of play). So in this fic, Alec is a center, Jace is a right winger, and Magnus is the missing link left winger for their new, perfect, soon to be magical line.


	2. Chapter 2

Magnus Bane has lost his cell phone. And perhaps his mind. But while it is entirely possible that he threw the former in the toilet last night because it would not shut up, he’s pretty sure the latter has been in the toilet for years. Decades, maybe even.

 

He’s saving the bathroom for last in his search because he does not wish to face that eventuality until he has exhausted all of his other options. And it’s not because he cannot afford a new phone – he could afford one made of solid gold, studded with diamonds if he were so inclined. But that phone contains some of his favorite photographs, many of them of stray felines that he comes across in his worldly travels. And if there’s one thing he has learned from watching far too much reality television it’s that you never put anything on the cloud.

 

He finds it eventually underneath his pillows when he remembers that he shoved it there at some point because even with the ringer off and the phone face down, it was still emitting too much light for his sleep deprived eyes to handle. But when he flips it over and looks at the newly lit up screen, he starts to wish that he’d thrown it in the commode after all.

 

His texts are in the triple digits, and his voicemails aren’t much better. Which is strange given that most of the people he knows loathe actually speaking into a cell phone, even if they’re only speaking to an automated box. But there is one name that is sure to be mixed in repeatedly with all the rest on both ends, and so Magnus takes a deep breath and dials because when you’re ripping off a band aid, there is no point in doing it slowly.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Cat asks before Magnus can even say hello.

 

“To the same place your civility has gone, I imagine,” he replies dryly. Literally dryly. After having slept for roughly eighteen hours straight, his mouth is so parched it feels sticky.

 

“I’ve been worried sick about you, Magnus,” she says, and he can hear that now. Her concern. Which is cute, given the way he hired her eight years ago because she was the biggest shark he could find.

 

“Now Catarina, why would you ever be worried about me? I am like a cat, remember? Throw me off a roof and I will simply land on my feet.”

 

“If you threw a cat off a roof it would splatter on the ground like a watermelon.”

 

Magnus pulls a face that Cat cannot see, so he makes sure the expression is latent in his voice when he says, “You are quite vile sometimes, has anyone ever told you that?”

 

“Yes. You. Last week.”

 

“That does sound like something I would do.”

 

“It sounds like something you _just did_ ,” she bites out, and something about the tone of her voice makes Magnus smile in spite of how she is clearly very, _very_ annoyed with him.

 

“How did your meeting with the team go?” she asks before he can put into words how pleased he is to have her in his life, hissing in his ear.

 

“I told you how it went.”

 

“No, you sent me a text that said, and I quote: _Met my new captain and my new coach. Coach seems nice. Captain is very tall. Looks like he’d be fun to climb though I’m not sure I’d be willing to risk the bark burn._ And then you added three poo emojis and disappeared for twenty-four hours.”

 

“You did not call the cops, did you? Because I hear that they make you wait a full forty-eight before they’ll even listen to your pleas.”

 

“ _Magnus._ ”

 

He groans. “I was sleeping, Catarina. I passed out, probably drunk, and slept almost an entire day away in order to escape the reality of what my life has become. Is that what you wanted me to say?”

 

The words slip out of his mouth before he can catch them. And it’s embarrassing really, the way his hand literally rises to clasp over his mouth like some appalled character in a bad romcom. But apparently eighteen hours wasn’t enough to erase the hangover that comes with being outed on national television.

 

“Do you need me to come there?” she asks after a pause that feels worse than much of the last few days.

 

“You know how I feel about you acting thoughtful. It creeps me out.”

 

“Mags-”

 

“I do not need you to come here, Catarina,” he interrupts, using her full name because he does not wish for her to think that they are friends at the moment, even though she is the single best one he has.

 

“I have a morning skate to get to, teammates to bond with, and a game tonight. My schedule is all full up. Perhaps I can pencil you in for some hand holding sometime after the holidays.”

 

“Magnus.”

 

“You’re breaking up,” he says, making cracking sounds into the phone for effect even though he’s used that trick on her so many times she no longer believes it, if there were ever a single day when she did. “I need… to… f… you’re…”

 

He hits end and stuffs his phone back under his pillow before heading in to take a quick shower, because he knows if he brings the damn thing into the bathroom with him, it’s going in the toilet.

 

He is in a taxi roughly an hour later, which is roughly thirty minutes past when he was supposed to be at some place called Johnny’s Ice House for his morning skate. And he should really be concerned about being late his first time doing anything with his new team, but he’s fairly certain that if he had not spent the last half hour standing under a spray of scalding water, he would have ended up falling back into bed and not coming out at all.

 

The skate is optional, but Magnus knows that really only means for everyone else. As the new guy, his options are limited.

 

He also probably could have asked the team to send him a car, another limo perhaps, or a fancy Lincoln. But Magnus likes cabs. The foul smell, the cracked leather, and the deep feel of anonymity that he is currently enjoying, sunglasses strapped to his face and his head leaned back against the seat as he tries to steal a few more moments of peace before his day begins.

 

Before his new _life_ begins.

 

“Is there any time of day when this city’s streets are not backed up?” he asks because sometimes, when he is bored and miserable, he likes to seek out idle chitchat with anyone that will have him.

 

Once, he spent forty-five minutes talking to a light pole. Granted, he did not _know_ that it was a light pole for at least the first twenty or so minutes of the conversation, thank you tequila! But even after he realized his mistake, he still spent another twenty-five minutes chatting her up because he felt bad about just ditching her once he saw her for what she truly was.

 

“Not really,” the driver says solemnly in response to Magnus’ question. “There’s always somebody going somewhere. Or a lot of somebodies going a lot of somewheres.”

 

That… was an incredibly boring response. But in the driver’s defense, Magnus hadn’t exactly given him an Oscar worthy pitch. And so he’s racking his brain for a better conversation starter than _might-as-well-have-asked-about-the-weather-traffic_ when the driver says, “You’re Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

 

Something cold settles in Magnus’ stomach as he swallows through a strange lump that has mysteriously appeared in the center of his throat.

 

“Guilty as charged,” he replies, refusing to lift his head as he waits for whatever potentially derogatory thing the man will have to say next.

 

But instead of some sort of homophobic slur, he just says, “I’m glad you’re here. Our top line has been one-third shit for years.”

 

Magnus does tip his head up then, letting his sunglasses slide down his nose so that he can peer over them at the very husky, very blue-collar man currently holding his life in his could-crash-the-cab-at-any-moment hands. And as the man glances up at the rearview mirror, Magnus can see a smile on his lips. Which is… unexpected.

 

He says, “Thank you,” because he cannot seem to conjure any better words. 

 

The man nods. “No, thank _you_. And fuck Detroit.”

 

That… was an odd thing to say. But the man says it with such enthusiasm, such _heart_ , that Magnus finds himself echoing an even more rousing, “Yes, fuck Detroit indeed!” because clearly, it is very important to this dear hearted man that they… well… fuck Detroit.

 

Lightwood is waiting for him in the lobby of the rink once he arrives, and he can clearly see through the plate glass doors that he is pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, his hands shoved in his pockets, his head turned down to the ground. And it makes Magnus feel like he’s just been pulled out of class by an announcement over the loudspeaker, asking him to go to the principal’s office.

 

Not like that ever happened to him, of course. He was a perfect angel in school.

 

Lightwood looks incredibly put out when Magnus enters, though, stone cold hazel eyes sliding up to his face. And so the only words Magnus can find for the occasion are, “Sorry I’m late.”

 

He is not actually sorry, but he _is_ late, so technically it is not a full lie.

 

“What?” Lightwood asks. “No. You’re not. I mean, you _are_ , I guess, but Coach G is pretty lax with morning skates on game days, so you’re not _late_ late. I was just… I wanted to make sure I was here. To greet you. That’s all.”

 

“That is very kind of you, Lightwood,” he says, but something about Magnus’ words makes his new captain’s face scrunch up like he just bit into a lemon. And not in the good _salt and tequila shots_ way.

 

“Please, call me Alec. Lightwood is my father.”

 

Magnus remembers Robert Lightwood, one of the fiercest defensemen the Devils have ever seen. _Alec_ comes from a long line of D-men, actually, like it is the family business. Only in that he at least managed to carve a small path of his own by becoming a forward.

 

“Then that is kind of you _Alec_ ,” Magnus corrects as he paints on a smile that he hopes looks at least moderately genuine.

 

“Can I… what do you like to be called? Bane or Magnus or-”

 

“Magnus is fine,” he interrupts gently, because he’s already getting the impression that that is one of the only ways to get Alec to stop stammering.

 

“Good. Great. _Magnus_. Welcome to the Ice House. If you want to follow me, I’ll show you where we gear up.”

 

For a privately owned practice rink outside of the stadium, this place is fairly impressive. But he’s spent the last four years of his career playing for a team that doesn’t even have an NHL caliber stadium yet, and so anything, really, is remarkable by comparison.

 

He feels instantly on edge once Alec points him to a locker with a practice jersey waiting for him, however. Because he’s been in locker rooms before, changed in front of countless men over the course of his career, but he’s never been in a room with just one other person like this. And given how tall, dark and handsome that other person is, there’s a very logical explanation for why Magnus’ throat is suddenly dry once more.

 

Alec doesn’t seem to mind the situation, as evidenced by the way he strolls over to his own locker, pulling his t-shirt over his head as he moves. And Magnus is about to do the same as he takes a seat on the bench in front of his stall, he really is. He’s still a professional, after all. But then Alec sort of turns to the side and Magnus catches sight of a six-pack ending in a rather strange looking tattoo just over Alec’s left hip. And for a few moments, his brain simply stops functioning as it should.

 

“Magnus?” Alec asks some time later, there is really no way for Magnus to be sure how long.

 

When Magnus looks up, it is obvious that he has been caught in the act of staring. But while some men might look at him with disgust – hell, some men _on this team_ might look at him with disgust for daring to ogle their half-naked form, Alec seems… confused. Like he cannot comprehend why someone like Magnus would want to stare at someone like him.

 

“I’m back,” Magnus says with the brightest smile he owns. But his response only makes Alec’s face scrunch up more. And really, this is too much for so early in the day.

 

“Sorry,” he apologizes for the second time this morning. “I was just… um… admiring your ink. Your tattoo, I mean. It’s very… interesting.”

 

“Oh!” Alec says like now he gets it, which is far too adorable of a response for its own good. “Yeah, Jace and I got matching ones when we got drafted.”

 

“What is it?” he asks, as in an ironic twist of fate, Magnus actually finds himself legitimately interested in the strange design gracing Alec’s skin.

 

The question, however, does nothing to help Magnus’ _other problems_ as the conversation actually prompts Alec to take a half dozen steps back in Magnus’ direction, like he wants to make sure Magnus gets a good look at the tattoo in question.

 

Attractive men should not be allowed to be that tall. Or that straight.

 

“It’s a Norse rune,” Alec says in this _teacher voice_ that certainly does not make Magnus _think things_. “Jace is sort of obsessed with Norse mythology. He thinks he’s descended from Vikings.”

 

“Is he?”

 

Alec snorts. “No. But try convincing him of that. Anyway, like I said, this is one of their runes. It’s called _oo-rooze_. U-R-U-Z. It’s supposed to be for, like, strength and stamina and stuff.”

 

Alec is so close now, the tattoo in Magnus’ direct sight line, near enough to touch. And he has to literally restrain himself from reaching out to run his fingers along the mark because as much as Alec seems comfortable with sharing tales of teenage tattooing with him, Magnus is fairly certain that he is not up for fondling of any sort.

 

“Does it work?” he asks if only because he assumes that talking will keep him from drooling.

 

“I don’t know. I haven’t properly tested it out yet.”

 

That answer is… weird. Very, very weird. And Magnus cannot figure out _why_ he finds it so weird until he trails his eyes up to Alec’s face and catches that _something_ flash in his eyes again. That darkness from yesterday.

 

It’s gone within the span of a breath, though, and so is Alec. Magnus’ eyes stuck on the strong line of his shoulders as he makes his way back to his stall to gear up for practice. And Magnus follows suit this time for lack of anything more inappropriate to do.

 

Really, he usually has far more common sense and self control than this.

 

They take the ice together, Alec leading the way and Magnus following him. And he is so lost in the sensation of skates on ice again – something he honestly thought for a hot minute that he would lose once Cat called him and told him of the bomb that was about to drop on him – that he doesn’t realize that there is a man-shaped projectile coming at him until there are arms around his waist.

 

“Mags!” someone screams.

 

And there is actual joy in his own voice when he replies, “Raph!” as he allows Raphael to skate him all the way back to the boards.

 

In all of the hoopla, he had completely forgotten that Raphael Santiago has been playing for the Blackhawks for the past two years. But it is a gift here, now, to come to that discovery because at least there is one familiar face to latch onto as he moves forward.

 

“You two know each other?” Alec asks from where he is standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted to the side like he is trying to analyze the scene before him.

 

“We used to play Bantam together,” Magnus says through the newly acquired looseness in his throat.

 

Alec looks to Raphael. “You didn’t tell me that.”

 

“Sorry, mom,” Raphael bites out. “I didn’t know I had to tell you who every single one of my friends was.”

 

Magnus is in the process of feeling appalled at how Raphael is speaking to his very kind, very tall captain, when said very kind, very tall captain says, “Fuck off, Santiago.”

 

Something may fritz a little bit in Magnus’ brain at that.

 

“Swear jar!” someone yells from behind Alec. The goalie, Lewis, first name Simon, Magnus thinks. Short but fast in the crease if he remembers correctly.

 

“You have a swear jar?” Magnus asks in surprise. But Wayland is the one to answer him, _Jace_ , from where he skates up and rests beside Alec.

 

“Not all of us, just him,” he says as he wraps his arm around Alec’s shoulders. “The rest of us get to cuss like fucking sailors.”

 

“Fuck off, asshole,” Alec says as he shrugs Jace off of him. But he is actually doing something very odd here, Alec is. He is _smiling_. And not the ones Magnus is used to seeing on him, from the pictures in the papers of Alec and his beautiful, blonde girlfriend. There’s something devious in this one, something of the devil hidden at the edges, and it quite literally takes Magnus’ breath away.

 

“You know you love me, fucker,” Jace says with a wink as he skates backwards towards the center of the rink.

 

“In your dreams, dickhead!” Alec shouts after him.

 

But Jace just smiles even wider and replies, “Dreams, dick, and head? What the hell do you think about when you fall asleep at night?”

 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Alec says before he skates off after Jace. And then he is on him. He is putting Jace in a headlock. He is tackling Jace to the ice. He is straddling Jace’s hips. And the pair of them are laughing. _Laughing_. And Magnus is so dizzy that he needs to lean against the boards just to stay upright.

 

“You all right there buddy?” Raphael asks a moment later, and Magnus has to blink out at him about a dozen times just to course correct.

 

“He has a personality,” he says almost weakly, because he’s shocked, plain and simple.

 

All he has ever seen of Alec Lightwood is what the news portrays. The sweet, buttoned up guy in the post games, or the tightly smiling, All American Poster Child with his perfect girlfriend who is also an athlete of some sort because _of course_ she would be. Like a tennis player, probably. He seems like the type of guy that would date a tennis player. Only he’s _not_ that guy. He is surly, gritty, and apparently lightly salted and Magnus has never felt so deceived in his entire life.

 

The media has lied to him, all this time. He really should file some kind of grievance. 

 

“Yeah, if you can call it that,” Raphael says. “Most of us just say that our captain is a raging dick.”

 

“I heard that!” Alec calls out from where he is still mock pummeling Jace on the ice.

 

“You were meant to, douche bag!”

 

And Magnus… well, frankly he has no idea what to do with any of this. But color him intrigued. And a little turned on.

 

Okay, after that thing in the locker room, more than a _little_ turned on.

 

Since he is being paid to be here, however, being paid to _play hockey_ , he shakes himself free of his own unhelpful thoughts and makes his way to the ice, finding more strength and focus the further he gets from the boards. And it feels good, he thinks. There is something about _this team_ that _feels good_.

 

This team that appears to be entirely present today, even though they don’t have to be. This team that swears and laughs and jokes around in ways that his previous two NHL teams did not. This team that is young and vibrant and talented, sitting on the cusp of something great that they can all no doubt feel but something that has clearly not robbed them of the joy of this game. This team that is _his now_. And so even though he still has no idea what exactly it means, he finds himself thinking only two words that feel almost like a war cry as he joins the huddle currently forming around Coach G:

 

Fuck Detroit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detroit is lovely! I do not hate Detroit! But Hawks fans hate the Wings like nobody's business (not as much as the Blues, but still). And so "Fuck Detroit" is actually something that gets said around the city quite a lot. I feel like I might be apologizing to cities a lot in this fic...


	3. Chapter 3

Alec has absolutely no idea what the hell happened to him. One minute he was pacing the lobby at the Ice House, waiting for Bane while trying to figure out what facial expression best conveys cordial welcome, and the next thing he knew he was tackling Jace and rubbing ice shavings in his face.

 

In between those two points there’d been something weird in the locker room. Not like _find an adult_ weird, but just… different. And it had only been about his tattoo in the end, which isn’t the first time someone’s asked him about it. But he could’ve sworn he felt Bane’s eyes lingering on the spot even after he put on his pads and jersey. And he could’ve also sworn that his skin sort of burned where Bane had been looking long after they left the locker room.

 

 _Magnus_. He wanted him to call him Magnus.

 

Usually he’s far more professional, is his point, especially where the team is concerned. But he’d just chalked it up to excitement. Because Raj is a great guy and all, real solid teammate, good in a pinch. But Raj hasn’t won the scoring title three years running on a team that can’t even break .500. That illustrious designation belongs to Magnus alone.

 

The skate had been freaking phenomenal, better than he could’ve expected. Coach G spent the majority of it focusing on line rushes, every minute practically geared toward making sure the new top line not only clicked but clicked with authority.

 

It was weird, _again_ , how seamless it felt. Like there was always just one piece missing from the puzzle and someone finally found it hidden underneath a couch cushion. And even though it had a little couch lint on it, and the rest of the puzzle was put together so long ago there’s a thin layer of dust on top of it, the puzzle is freaking _complete_ and now…

 

Well, he doesn’t really know how to end the puzzle analogy, but as far as hockey goes, now it’s time to see if practice chemistry can translate onto the ice when it really matters.

 

They’re playing Detroit tonight, one of their biggest rivals and the current defending Stanley Cup champs. And so even though the season isn’t all that old just yet, this is still a big game for them. A “test,” as the media loves to call it, and one Alec would very much like to pass.

 

Screw that. Not just pass. He wants a freaking A+ with, like, smiley face drawings and exclamation points.

 

The second they hit the ice for warmups, the whole place erupts in a, “Fuck Detroit,” chant that somehow manages to almost entirely drown out the opening chords of “Stranglehold” that usually greet them. The lyrics, “Here I come again now baby, like a dog in heat,” rebounding off the ice alongside the rabid screams of the crowd in a way that makes Alec’s blood literally feel like it’s boiling in his veins.

 

For some reason, his eyes slide to Magnus like they’re magnetized there. And once they land, he’s far from disappointed.

 

There’s this almost quizzical look on Magnus’ face as he stares up at the packed house, trailing his eyes around the stands that bleed red and black. And Alec doesn’t realize that he’s skating towards him until he’s directly in front of him, possibly too close to be entirely polite.

 

“Is this some sort of citywide mantra I don’t know about?” Magnus asks, his eyes still blinking up at the way the fans can’t seem to stay in their seats during _warmups_ like they know on some level that tonight is different. Like they’re _hungry_.

 

Before Alec can answer him, Jace skates up and does it for him. Because a nosier ass never existed than the one belonging to Jace Wayland.

 

“Two things you gotta know about this city: Detroit will be fucked every time they’re mentioned, and St. Louis sucks so much they really should be the ones called the Blue Jackets instead of Columbus because. You know. _BJs_.”

 

Jace. Is. A. Fucking. Idiot. But Magnus doesn’t seem to be bothered by that fact as he finally lets his eyes slide back down to the people standing in front of him.

 

He looks at Alec first, even though Jace was the one talking to him. His gaze lingering for a second that somehow feels like longer before he raises an eyebrow and looks to Jace.

 

“So fuck Detroit and blow St. Louis, is that what you’re saying?”

 

Jace beams. Alec grimaces. Seems like a pretty standard day in their life together.

 

“See? You’re catching on quick!” Jace says before skating up to Magnus so he can wrap his arm around his shoulders and lead him into the warmups cycling behind them. And the way Magnus shoots Alec this look that clearly says _help me_ actually makes him crack a smile. On the ice. On game day. Like that’s somehow a thing he’s allowed to do now.

 

The smile manages to remain on his face by some feat of either gravity or insanity as he shrugs his shoulders at Magnus in the international sign of _that’s what happens when you feed a gremlin after midnight._ And, to put it bluntly, Alec is _pumped_. There’s no other way to describe it.

 

Magnus’ facial expressions continue to enamor him, for lack of a better term, when they line up at center ice for the anthem. The roar of the crowd washing over them as the ice literally rumbles beneath their skates from the force of it.

 

His eyes are huge, Magnus’ are, like a deer caught in headlights. And Alec knows he’s heard this before – anyone that plays a game at the United Center hears this every damn time. But he’s got to imagine that there’s something different about it the first time you’re on the true receiving end of it.

 

To a visiting team, the way the crowd screams and claps during the anthem is a threat. But to the home team? It’s a freaking _serenade_.

 

“Pretty badass, right?” Alec says as he skates over to Magnus once the anthem is finished, bumping into his shoulder before backing up towards center ice so he can get ready for the opening faceoff.

 

Magnus doesn’t answer him, he just sort of stares blankly like he’s still a bit dazed by it all. And so Alec finds it in his captainly heart to say, “You’re one of us now!” because there’s a part of him that’s wondering if maybe, _just maybe_ , Magnus doesn’t get that yet.

 

That he doesn’t even need to take one official pass for him to be _one of them_.

 

The game starts out just as rough as Alec expected, right from the first drop of the puck. Whenever they face Detroit, Alec’s line is inevitably shifted against Sebastian Morgenstern’s, because regardless of which coach gets last change, both G and Valentine seem to think watching Alec and Sebastian beat the crap out of each other all night is the best way to hockey.

 

Alec doesn’t mind. He may be the center on one of the top scoring lines in the league, but he’s a checking center at heart. And so there’s just something deeply satisfying about getting to run guys into the boards, especially if those guys are as big of a dick as Morgenstern.

 

Alec doesn’t hate many people. Or, well, okay, he kind of blanket hates _all people_. But if he ever had to make a list of the ones he officially hated for legitimate reasons other than _breathing in my vicinity_ , that asshole would be at the top of it.

 

Valentine Morgenstern is a different coach than G, which means he’s not above telling his players, especially his prick of a son, to fight dirty. But the way to get around that is with skill and speed, and that’s something that Alec’s new line has in spades.

 

For their first two shifts on the ice, they’re just getting their legs. But by their third shift, Magnus rifles this shot that almost takes the goalie’s head clean off. Literally. The ref even allows for one of those “the goalie needs a really slow drink of water but really he needs to take his mask off and make sure that his head is still attached to his neck” fake timeouts after it and Alec…

 

He knew Magnus was strong, that his shot was described by some as lethal, but that was a stealth missile fired from the freaking slot. And so if Alec’s blood was boiling before, it’s got to be hot enough to burn clear through his veins by this point.

 

Their fifth time out on the ice together, Magnus scores his first goal as a Blackhawk. And to say that it’s a work of art is an understatement of epic proportions.

 

It’s the kind of thing that’s going to be on clips reels for the rest of the season, Alec can tell that before the puck even sails into the net. The way Magnus dekes around the defender in the slot, the way Alec’s pass hits the tape of his stick like it was drawn there by a supernatural force. The freaking spinorama Magnus employs like it’s just the easiest maneuver ever despite the fact that there are only a handful of guys in the league that can do something like that without losing the puck and looking like an ass.

 

And then there’s this half second opening, one in which Magnus manages to deke again, get the goalie to go low before he flicks his wrist and sends the puck sailing into the five inch opening just over the goalie’s left shoulder.

 

The stadium erupts. Again. “Chelsea Dagger” screaming over the loudspeakers as Jace flies from the corner and nearly tackles Magnus to the ice. And Alec is really glad that nobody is looking at him right now because he’s beaming. His cheeks actually _hurt_ from how wide he’s smiling.

 

By the time Magnus scores his second goal, midway through the second period, the crowd is chanting his name like it’s their new favorite word. And Alec knows he shouldn’t hope. It’s only November. There are _a lot_ of games between now and April. But when he hears Magnus’ name chanted like a war cry while Jace practically humps the guy against the boards, it’s hard not to _imagine_.

 

The Stanley Cup weighs thirty-five pounds, but they say that it’s lighter than air when you win it.

 

Alec and Jace make a silent agreement to spend the rest of the game doing everything in their power to get Magnus the Hat Trick. The game is a runaway anyways. When you enter the third period with a 4-1 lead, you can loosen your vigilance a little, play for a different goal. But it seems like instead of trying to actually win the game, the father and son duo of Morgenstern and Even Bigger Asshole Morgenstern seem to have taken it as their personal mission to make sure Magnus’ goal tally for the night remains at two and so it’s hard.

 

Valentine pulls their goalie at the end, though, conceding the _don’t let Magnus score again_ battle in favor of trying to actually _win the game_. But as usually happens when the net is emptied for a sixth attacker, the puck always seems to find a way through.

 

It’s Jace this time, breaking away from the pack, speeding toward the empty net like a bullet. And Magnus’ pass is a thing of beauty, slipping through the legs of the D-man guarding him before he pivots off the guy and makes a dash for the other side of the ice as well. But even though Jace has a completely open shot, without a single defender between him and the net, he still makes a pass back to a half-guarded Magnus because…

 

Well, Alec doesn’t really know _why_. Because when it comes to scoring, Jace Wayland is a glory hog the likes of which Alec has never seen anywhere else in his life. But he gives it to Magnus this time, takes a goal that should’ve been his and hands it to Magnus on a silver freaking platter. And Alec would hug the guy if he didn’t want to retain the impression that he can’t stand Jace as far as he can throw him.

 

Magnus is tripped pretty badly as soon as the puck gets to him, but he still manages to throw his stick at it enough to get it to sail dead center on goal and honestly, Alec really isn’t all that surprised. On a night like tonight, Alec wouldn’t be shocked if Magnus moved the puck into the net with his mind like David freaking Blaine.

 

Alec has never heard the United Center louder than when Magnus scores a meaningless empty net goal in a 5-2 win. And as the hats rain down from the rafters, the smile returns to his face. Hell, maybe it hasn’t left all game, he hasn’t really noticed. Mostly because he was too busy watching his new linemate dismantle the opposition like an expert surgeon. But he can feel it now, pressing against his cheeks, against his _lungs_ , and he’s not entirely sure if he’s ever felt this good in his entire life and it’s just _one game_.

 

One game.

 

What the hell are the rest going to feel like?

 

The locker room is more crowded than usual after the game, and it takes Alec a few minutes to realize that it’s because there are national reporters here tonight alongside the normal beat ones. And that’s when he remembers why Magnus is _here_. And so any freaking jubilation he might have been feeling flushes out of him lightning quick as he settles in his stall and awaits the no doubt moronic questions he’s going to get.

 

It starts immediately.

 

“So what does it feel like to have the first openly gay player on your team?” someone asks. A face Alec doesn’t recognize and so not one of the beats that his parents have on such a tight leash you’d think they ran the organization like a dictatorship.

 

Who’s he kidding? This place is like the freaking Gestapo when it comes to what is allowed to leave the locker room.

 

“Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s bisexual, not gay,” Alec says through the rapidly increasing tightness in his jaw. “And after tonight’s game, I’d say it feels pretty damn good.”

 

He’s foolishly hoping that might be it, that his blanket statement might be enough for them to just back off the issue and talk about, you know, _hockey_. But it only gets worse from there, question after question, all of which are saying the same exact thing. And so by the time the twelfth reporter asks him some variation of _are you sure this team is okay with the fact that Magnus sometimes likes to touch boys_ , Alec’s had enough.

 

“You know what, I’m glad he’s bisexual,” he says as brightly as he can. “Because somehow that got him to our team. If Winnipeg wants to run their organization on a foundation of homophobic bigotry, that’s their business. But if it results in us getting one of the top ten players in the league right now, I’m going to go ahead and thank them for their small-minded bullshit.”

 

There’s an actual hush falling around the locker room, working out from his stall, but Alec can’t seem to stop himself now that he’s started.

 

“And another thing,” he says as his fists clench at his sides. “Did you guys actually _see him_ out there? Or were you too busy trying to think up these asinine questions? Because Magnus Bane was fucking _magical_ tonight, and yet all you guys seem to want to talk about is who he likes to screw in his spare time.”

 

He takes a deep breath that does nothing to settle him.

 

“As far as I’m concerned, he could be fucking the Queen of England and I wouldn’t give two shits, as long as he keeps scoring goals like that.”

 

“Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight!” a voice cuts through to him. And even though he can’t yet see her through the crowd of reporters gathered in front of him, he can tell that his sister’s voice is far from pleased.

 

Izzy loves him enough to tolerate his bullshit on a daily basis, but Isabelle Lightwood, manager of public relations for the Chicago Blackhawks, doesn’t always feel the same about her team’s captain. It’s why he’s generally given a very limited set of topics that he’s allowed to discuss in front of cameras, microphones, or people not related to him.

 

“The boys have an early flight tomorrow, so I think we’re going to have to cut this a little short,” she continues as she pushes her way easily through a crowd that always seems to part like the Red Sea for her.

 

She literally shoos the reporters away from him, herding them towards the door like cattle before turning around and hissing, “Hit the showers and _go home_. I’ll deal with this.”

 

Alec would never admit out loud that he’s a little terrified of his sister, but _Alec is a little terrified of his sister_ , and so he listens to her without even the slightest hint of backtalk.

 

His whole team is watching him as he makes his way across the locker room. He can feel their eyes on him, boring holes in his skin. But despite the fact that he’s trying to keep his own eyes locked on the floor, when he gets about five feet from the door to the showers something pulls his gaze off track.

 

Magnus is staring at him, just like everyone else. But whereas he’s relatively certain he’d be able to read any of the other expressions like open books, he can’t yet gauge what’s in Magnus’ eyes.

 

A few months from now, once he’s had a chance to get to know the guy, he’s positive that his instincts will kick in just like they did with everyone else. That he’ll be able to tell with a single glance what his teammate is thinking, what his teammate needs. But right now all Alec is getting is static like he’s still a far cry from tuning into the right station.

 

He changes his mind about the shower, slipping back into his suit and heading straight home instead because he has a shower there. But even after he’s safely at home, clean and in his favorite pair of sweats, he still feels twisted up inside.

 

Tonight was too close. Those questions – it felt like they were attacking _him_. Which is stupid and melodramatic of him because no one outside his teammates and his family (minus his parents) even know he’s gay. Will probably _ever_ know he’s gay until he retires, maybe, and can live a life that doesn’t involve scheduled hookups with discreet strangers once a month just to take the edge off. And so him being an over reactive baby about the whole thing when Magnus was twenty feet away, sitting on the edge of a life currently in the process of being picked apart by vultures, was too much, even for him.

 

It’s not about him. And that he let it be, even if it was only just for a few seconds and even if it was only inside his own head, is unforgivable.

 

When someone shows up at his place an hour later, he knows it’s his sister by the way she knocks on his door. Morse code, _SOS_ , the same way they’ve been knocking on each other’s doors ever since they were kids and realized their parents were assholes.

 

“How bad was it?” he asks as soon as he opens the door, because the quicker he gets it out of the way, the better he’ll feel.

 

“You didn’t check?” she asks as she makes herself comfortable in his place because that’s what Izzy does. The second she walks into any room, she acts not only like she owns it, but like she _built_ it.

 

“Been too afraid to turn on the TV,” he admits, because he’s never found any point in lying to her. Even if she weren’t pretty much the most important person in his life, and so the one person he wants to be honest with above all others, she’s far too good at reading his poker face for him to ever hope that he could squeak even the smallest of lies past her.

 

One time, when he was twelve, he finished a box of Lucky Charms even though he knew they were her favorite. And he didn’t even get the first word of his lie out of his mouth before she was pummeling him.

 

There’s a lightness about her when she collapses on his couch, reaching for his glass of water on the coffee table and smelling it before realizing it’s not, in fact, vodka and so not something she wants to drink.

 

“Mom and dad handled the beat reporters like usual,” she says casually, clearly intending to make Alec work for every bit of this.

 

“And the national?”

 

She sighs deeply, leans back into fine leather and puts her now bare feet up onto his coffee table, her six-inch stilettos discarded beneath her.

 

“Magnus took care of them.”

 

Something cold rushes through his veins when he asks, “Magnus? How?”

 

She stares at him for a few seconds, studying him in the dim light of the room. Her voice more solemn than it was before when she replies, “He offered to do an impromptu presser, full disclosure, if they agreed not to print your little tirade.”

 

“Why the hell would he do that?” Alec asks because honestly, he’s confused.

 

But Izzy doesn’t seem to be any less puzzled than he is when she shrugs and says, “That’s something you’re going to have to ask him. I’m sure I’ll be getting a lovely call from his agent at any moment, but in the meantime…”

 

She pats the cushion next to her with one hand while reaching for his remote with the other, the light of the TV flooding the room as he remains frozen in place and asks, “What are you doing?”

 

“I thought you might like to watch someone take a bullet for you.”

 

He doesn’t. Not really. To be perfectly honest, he’s feeling sick enough as is, knowing that Magnus willingly sat in front of a hungry pack of wolves with the preface that they could ask him any question their predatory minds could think up. But he still heads over to the couch regardless, still takes a seat and looks directly at the TV, because when someone takes a bullet for you, the least you can do is figure out just how bad the wound is so you know the correct size thank you basket to send to the hospital.

 

Izzy curls into his side almost instantly, pushing under his arm so she can wrap hers around his stomach, pillow her head on his chest. And it’s nice to have her here – his little sister, not his PR manager – as the NHL Network cycles back around to Magnus’ press conference.

 

The questions aren’t as invasive as Alec was expecting, but they’re not exactly softballs either. But regardless of what is thrown at him, Magnus seems to answer every single one of them with a smile on his face that Alec simply doesn’t understand. Because the type of stuff they’re asking? It’s _personal_ , as in _none of anyone’s damn business but Magnus’_. And yet he takes it all in like a golden glove boxer, absorbing the hits, biding his time until he can complete the knockout.

 

It doesn’t come, though. Not on either side. The reporters don’t break him, but he doesn’t lash out either, doesn’t do anything to take them down apart from the subtle digs he gets in every now and again that the reporters themselves don’t even seem to pick up on. And so when Izzy says almost reverently at the end of the conference, “Damn, he’s good,” Alec can’t help but agree with her.

 

“He’s so much better than you are,” she continues as she disentangles herself from his arms before slipping back into her shoes. “Maybe we can ask him to coach you.”

 

“Hardy fucking har,” he says, but all he gets in return is a raised eyebrow.

 

“I wasn’t kidding.”

 

Alec glares at her for a long second before saying, “I hate you.”

 

She just leans in to kiss him on the cheek, though. Her voice far too chipper for a night like tonight when she replies, “I love you too, big brother.”

 

“I said _hate_.”

 

“Ah, your words said hate, but your eyes said love,” she says as she gets to her feet and heads towards his door. “Get some sleep. You actually _do_ have an early flight tomorrow, and we all know how poorly you function if you don’t get at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

 

“Iz,” he says before she can leave. And the way she looks at him with something like concern in her eyes means she easily caught the way his voice hitched around her name.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” she says before tipping her head toward the TV. “Thank _him_. And I mean that. Like. Expensive bottle of liquor type thank you. Offer him your never-going-to-exist first born child type thank you.”

 

He runs his hand over the back of his neck and ducks his head away, hiding his eyes from her when he says, “I’m sorry,” because those words never cease to make him feel anything other than grimy.

 

“Eh,” she says flippantly. “It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve stuck your foot in your mouth, and I doubt it’ll be the last. It just makes my job more interesting.”

 

He looks up at that, racking his brain for something else to say here. But all she does is smile at him and head out because apparently as far as she’s concerned, he’s said all that he needs to.

 

She was right about the thank you, though. He owes Magnus a huge one. But he’s having enough trouble trying to process the act in general, and so it’s likely going to take him a while to figure out how to make it up to him.

 

No one’s ever done anything like that for him before. Ever done anything to… like… _protect him_. And it would be weird enough, coming from someone like Izzy, whose job it is to shield him from stuff like this. Or from Jace, who’s a putz most of the time but who loves him like blood. But Magnus?

 

Magnus doesn’t even know him, and yet there he was tonight, grabbing the spotlight and dragging it back to him so that Alec could stay hidden in the shadows. And that’s just not something Alec _gets_. But it is, apparently, something capable of keeping Alec awake all night, tossing and turning. Because after twenty-three years spent protecting everyone around him like he was born to be the world’s shield, having an almost complete stranger return the favor is more than enough to steal an entire night of sleep from him.

 

Only something tells him that one night is just the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

Magnus has always liked Nashville. He’s never been terribly into country music, so the place can get a bit twangy for his tastes. But there’s still something about the city that seems to tug on him.

 

Perhaps it is the water. He’s quite fond of water, actually, in all its forms. Skating on a frozen sheet of it. Drinking it. Showering in it. Swimming in it. The little chunks of the frozen variety that melt in his glass, thinning his liquor and keeping him from dehydrating and dying like they are his own personal bodyguards. Water is a truly superb invention if you ask him. But tonight, he’s simply finding peace walking near it.

 

They had another marvelous game. He did not score a Hat Trick this time around, but he was a fistfight shy of the Gordie Howe version, ending the night with two assists and a goal of his own. And the Predators aren’t terribly good this season, and so not the type of team that’s necessarily built to stop a line like the one he is somehow, miraculously, a part of. But every time he sets skates on the ice with Alec and Jace, something settles inside of him, giving him a sense of calm he can find nowhere else in recent days.

 

Which is why he is strolling along the riverbank like some forlorn, lovesick character in the sort of sappy movie one would find on the Hallmark channel. Because he has not been able to sleep much since his alcohol-induced, eighteen hour binge of the other day, and because he is hoping that a late night walk in the fresh, crisp air will tire him enough to crash.

 

Booze would work better. But he knows himself well enough to see the slippery slope long before he dives headfirst down it. And he wants to be good right now, clear-headed on the ice at the very least. He very desperately wants to be _good_ here, and not just because he’s hoping to win a Cup and shove it in Camille’s and the whole of Winnipeg’s faces.

 

There are people here, good people. The kind of people whose goodness makes you want to be good, too. And he is using the word “good” far too much for one evening, but it is the only one he can manage to settle on. That is until he finally meanders his way back to the hotel.

 

Raphael is already asleep, and so Magnus, saint that he is, does not turn on a single light. Instead, he chooses to stumble across the dark room to plop face down on his own bed, fully clothed, because he actually feels like he may be tired enough to sleep. Only the moment his weary, aching bones hit the mattress, he is startled right back to full alertness.

 

His bed is soaking wet. And not just _somebody spilled a glass of water_ wet, but _clearly some juvenile teammates have decided to play a prank_ wet. And so he is jumping off of the bed with an embarrassing _yelp_ before the sopping sheets manage to soak through his clothes as well.

 

He can hear Raphael snickering where he was supposedly “sleeping,” but Magnus does not give him the satisfaction of seeing him so upset. Opting to head immediately out of the room instead as he tries to shake off the feeling one gets when they slip back into a still-wet swimsuit.

 

He has not been the “new guy” in years, and has not been on a team with enough young players to actually worry about hazing in just as long. But even though he knows that it is simply a matter of “team bonding,” he is still very cranky right now as he storms his way to his captain’s room to demand restitution.

 

Children. They are all a bunch of _children_.

 

The only reason he is knocking on Alec’s door in the middle of the night is because he needs to somehow find another bed. But when Alec opens the door in just a pair of plain black boxer briefs, his face creased from his pillow, his hair an unruly mess, Magnus admits to himself that there might have been some other, far less noble reasons why he came here instead of going to the front desk like a normal person.

 

“Tornado or sheets?” Alec asks before Magnus can even catch his breath.

 

Alec’s voice is so _husky_ , ragged from the sleep Magnus selfishly yanked him from, that it takes him a moment to even utter the word, “What?”

 

Alec smiles. It’s small and crooked, tired as all get out, but it still manages to make something flutter in Magnus’ chest like he is quite literally a pining teenager looking at his first _Tiger Beat_.

 

Why can’t he just sleep? He swears that he would be far less irrational if he could only get a good night of sleep.

 

“Which one did they do? Tornado your room or soak your sheets? Or… wait, they didn’t do both, did they?”

 

“Just… um… just the sheets one,” Magnus replies, trying to force himself to stand up straighter in the hopes that it will gain him some composure.

 

But any hope he had of that is thrown right out the window when Alec steps aside from the door, still holding it ajar with one arm, and says a simple, “Good. Come on in.”

 

All Magnus is capable of in response is a prolonged droning noise rumbling from the back of his throat.

 

“The free bed,” Alec explains as he drags his hand back through his hair in a way that only manages to make it look even messier than before. “It’s all yours. Unless you’re uncomfortable-”

 

“No!” Magnus exclaims far too loudly to sound entirely sane. But he does his best to adjust his tone to something more human when he adds, “I’m perfectly comfortable,” even though it is painfully obvious that he is not. But when your Greek god of a captain offers you the spare bed in his room, you shut your mouth, accept the invitation and power through the discomfort.

 

Over the course of his life, Magnus has done far more uncomfortable things to get to know people far less attractive than Alec Lightwood. 

 

“You want a change of clothes?” Alec asks next as he grabs a t-shirt from beside his bed and slips into it, flicking on a bedside lamp when he’s done to trade off for the light they lose when Magnus allows the door to shut behind him.

 

The only reason he is wearing clothes right now is because he was too tired to strip down when he got back. But given how he can feel the wetness on his skin now, plastered to his stomach, his thighs, he evidently did not get out of the bed quickly enough to prevent damage.

 

“I can go get my own,” he offers, turning to reach for the doorknob. But his movements are arrested by Alec’s voice.

 

“Uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

 

Magnus crosses his arms over his chest and furrows his brow. “And why is that?”

 

“Because, knowing them, they’re probably all waiting in your room with a camera as we speak. It’s probably best not to play into that, you know? Like how you’re not supposed to feed animals at the zoo.”

 

“That is charming.”

 

Alec puffs out a little grunt of laughter. “I know, right? Sometimes I feel like I’m the only adult on this team. Anyway, here,” he says, tossing a spare t-shirt and pair of shorts at Magnus.

 

“Do you always bring a spare set of sleeping wear on a one-night road trip?” he asks as he twists his fingers around the soft, worn cotton of Alec’s clothing.

 

“It’s always best to be prepared, right?”

 

“Tell me, were you actually a Boy Scout, or do you just look and talk like one?”

 

The crooked smile returns, like Alec is not entirely sure how to take this conversation. And the way he tips his head like a confused baby animal is so endearing it almost causes an unwanted noise to slip through Magnus’ lips.

 

He is not saying that it would have been a moan, but there are definitely moan-like qualities to what he just bit down the back of his throat.

 

“I just know my team. Which means I know there’s always a seventy percent chance of rain on any road trip. And by rain I mean someone is going to do something assholish and I’m going to have to deal with it.”

 

He doesn’t sound put out by that fact, merely bemused. And Magnus has had many captains over the course of his life, throughout all levels of the game. But something about the longsuffering, almost parental way Alec deals with his teammates feels different to him.

 

“They’re just doing it because they like you,” Alec calls out as Magnus steps into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack so that he can still hear Alec while he changes his clothes.

 

“Raj has been here for two years and I still don’t think they’ve gotten around to messing with his shit yet. I almost tornado his room every road trip just because I feel sort of bad for the guy, but after this long it just seems like it would be awkward, you know?”

 

“So I should be flattered that my pants are soaking wet?” Magnus calls as he slips out of said soaking wet pants before staring down at his underwear like he’s not sure what to do with them.

 

They’re not as wet as his pants were, but they _are_ a bit damp. So the conundrum is should he leave them on and feel a touch of discomfort in that regard, or take them off and have to deal with the realization that there is nothing between his skin and Alec’s shorts.

 

Of all the possible decisions he thought he might have to face tonight, this one did not even crack the top fifty.

 

“Well, you do have six points in two games. It’s really your own fault.”

 

“So I was asking for it? Is that honestly where you want to take this?” Magnus asks, and there’s something familiar in his own tone. Something that feels too much like flirting to be considered anything else. Which is something that he really should put a stop to before it goes too far.

 

Alec laughs, loudly enough for Magnus to hear it through the crack in the door. And for some reason it makes him feel bold enough to ditch his boxers before stepping into the dark blue, terrycloth shorts provided to him by his generous captain.

 

“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a shit heel, so I’m just going to keep my mouth shut if it’s all the same to you.”

 

Magnus is smiling now, all the way up to his eyeballs as he unbuttons one of his absolute favorite dress shirts and hangs it sadly on the back of the bathroom door to dry. But any sense of longing he might be feeling is erased immediately when he goes to put Alec’s t-shirt over his head.

 

He actually stops halfway through doing it, his entire head surrounded by cheap cotton like some child pretending to be a ghost as the scent of it attacks his senses. And it’s not anything special, necessarily. Detergent, fabric softener, and perhaps the faint aroma of some sort of aftershave or cologne lingering from whatever else was in his bag. But it’s so overwhelming that it freezes him in place.

 

There is a distinct possibility that he raises his hands at that, pressing the fabric from the outside even harder to his face. And he must really be in dire need of a solid night of rest because he is acting like a complete imbecile, even more so than usual.

 

“Everything okay in there?” Alec asks, his knuckles rapping lightly on the bathroom door. And Magnus yanks his head through the rest of the t-shirt so quickly he thinks he may actually have some sort of fabric burn on his nose from it.

 

“Just dandy!” he replies as he opens the door and almost runs headlong into the human wall still standing there.

 

The way Alec’s eyes drag down his body causes Magnus’ skin to prickle with gooseflesh, the hairs along his arms standing on edge as Alec pulls the corner of his lip between his teeth like there is something about Magnus wearing his clothes that… _affects_ him. And he knows that is not possible in any strict, heteronormative sense of the word, but it still saturates him with the near crushing urge to just reach out and _touch_.

 

He shuts his eyes, takes a slow, deep breath in through his nose, and waits for Alec to retreat back to his bed.

 

Magnus assumes that once they are in their respective sleeping places and the lights are off, the tension will ease. For all he knows, Alec is the type of person that passes out the second his head hits the pillow. But any peace he expected seems very far from him once he’s shrouded in the near pitch black of the room.

 

He’s lying flat on his back, the covers pulled up to his neck like some sort of virgin bride, cowering beneath her blankets. And the room is just light enough for him to make out some strange stains on the ceiling, probably from his good friend water. But in spite of all that, the only thing he can focus on is Alec, less than ten feet away, half naked again, lying in bed.

 

It truly is unfair that someone so unavailable is allowed to look so gorgeous.

 

“Can I ask you something?” Alec asks about ten minutes and at least a half dozen wildly inappropriate fantasies later.

 

“Boxer briefs when I’m on the ice, but I much prefer au naturale every time else.”

 

Why does he talk? Why does Magnus ever open his mouth to speak?

 

“What?” Alec asks with a small puff of surprise. “No. I… um… I was wondering why… why you did it.”

 

Magnus is going to need Alec to be vastly more specific right now, given the loose nature of his own thoughts.

 

“Why did I do what?”

 

He can hear Alec roll over in his bed, can see the faint movement of it out of the corner of his eye. A dark blob rising to a blobby elbow to get a better look at where he, Magnus, is still clutching his sheets in _please stop being so turned on_ terror.

 

“The presser. You didn’t… you didn’t have to.”

 

Alec sounds so uncertain right now, another in an ever increasing series of tones, each completely different from the last like there are multiple layers to even his layers. Each one bleeding over the ones beside it in a constant battle for domination like even he can’t figure out who he wants to be at any given moment.

 

Oh hell. Alec is already making him philosophical. Where is Catarina and her sharp slaps to the face when he needs them?

 

“I know I did not have to do it, Alec,” he replies because when faced with such natural honesty, one should try and return it in like kind. It’s only good manners.

 

“So why then?”

 

Though he has not known Alec for long, he can already tell that he is not likely to let this go without some form of satisfactory explanation. And so Magnus attempts to give him one.

 

“Why did you say those things in the locker room?”

 

“Because they were true and the reporters were being dicks.”

 

Magnus nods. He does not know if Alec can see it in the darkness, but the gesture is just as much for himself as it is for Alec.

 

“Do you know how many of my teammates have reached out to me since I left?”

 

The question feels hot in his throat, sharp against his skin. And already it is more than he generally cares to admit out loud, even with people like Cat. But there’s a part of him that knows, instinctively, that he can trust Alec. And though he has no logical reason to feel that way just yet, his gut has rarely ever lead him astray.

 

You should have heard how loudly it screamed at him every single day of his and Camille’s nearly three-year-long relationship.

 

“How many?” Alec asks, his voice quieter now, like he’s afraid to disturb the solemnity of their shift in conversation.

 

“None,” Magnus replies. “I played there four years. That is more than half the time I have been in the league.” He pauses, this time definitely more for himself than for Alec before adding, “That is why I did it.”

 

Alec seems to need some time to digest what Magnus just said. But he is almost certain that Alec has fallen asleep in the interim until his voice hums through the silence once more.

 

“How do you deal with it?”

 

He sighs.

 

“Though I am not used to this particular topic just yet, I am still well acquainted with the prying eyes of the press,” he says as his fingers reach down to twist in Alec’s shorts like there is some comfort to be found in soft fabric cutting off the circulation in his hands.

 

“Camille Belcourt,” Alec replies, the words barely above the sound of a whisper. “She’s an actress, right?”

 

“Broadway, yes.”

 

“I… um… remember hearing about your breakup. I’m… sorry.”

 

There is a zero percent chance that Magnus can stop himself from laughing at that.

 

“Don’t be. She’s a harpy. I would gladly tackle a dozen very public breakups if it meant I would never have to deal with her again.”

 

He almost tells Alec about the club, about Camille and her paparazzi friends. But there’s a slight hint of fear swirling in his belly at the thought of speaking those words that he doesn’t quite understand. Almost as if he is afraid of what someone like Alec might do with them. So he starts babbling instead, because if there is one thing Magnus Bane is good at aside from hockey, it is rambling about useless nonsense.

 

“It’s my fault, really, for ever getting involved with someone like her in the first place. She’s the type of woman whose fangs you can see from a mile away, if you catch my drift. I really should be more sensible, date someone kind and simple, like a tennis player.”

 

Oh dear. Why did he say that?

 

“Are tennis players nice?” Alec asks. And Magnus is torn between relief at the fact that he evidently got Alec’s girlfriend’s profession wrong and surprise at the same thing, because he could have sworn that’s what the pretty blonde did for a living.

 

The next time he has a moment to himself, he is really going to have to spend some time googling things.

 

“Um, yes, I have heard that they are,” Magnus tries to backpedal in the hopes of salvaging whatever may be left of this conversation. “Those little white skirts certainly make them look it.”

 

He sounds nervous, mostly because he _is_. But Alec seems to attribute Magnus’ nerves to the exact wrong thing, judging by how remorseful he sounds when he says, “I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking now. You’ve been getting interrogated for days. You don’t need me to join the mob.”

 

“Actually, I thought this was a conversation, not an interrogation,” he replies as softly as he can, because for some reason he does not wish for Alec to fall asleep thinking that he has somehow offended him.

 

“I’ve been told that I lack those particular skills. Repeatedly. By… well… _everyone_.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, I think you’re doing great.”

 

“Huh,” Alec huffs in disbelief. “Thanks.”

 

But before Magnus can do any more work to convince him that he is, in fact, not as bad at conversations as the people in his life would have him believe, he is speaking again.

 

“I really am sorry about the presser. I’m not… people don’t usually do that for me.”

 

“Do what?”

 

Alec shrugs. Magnus cannot actually see it, but he can certainly sense it.

 

“Stuff?” he says, the word more question than anything.

 

Magnus generally prides himself on being a fierce protector of all things _heart_ , especially since Camille tried to rip his still-beating one from his chest almost two years ago now. But something in the way Alec says that one simple word makes a tiny fissure appear along the surface of his.

 

“Anyway, thanks,” Alec finishes before rolling the dark blob of himself back over again, his back to Magnus now.

 

And Magnus doesn’t even need to fake the sincerity in his own voice when he says, “You are welcome, Alec,” because if he weren’t sure that he did the right thing before, he is one hundred percent positive now.

 

He’d done it for the exact reason he told Alec – because in all his time in the league, no one has ever stood up for him the way Alec did in the locker room. His reputation is garbage at the moment anyway, so why should Alec be demonized as well simply for backing up a teammate? But now Magnus almost wishes that he could go back and do it all over again because whatever motivation he had just twenty-four hours ago seems to already pale in comparison to the one he has now.

 

The one that says Alec Lightwood is the type of person that should be protected at all costs. Which is an odd way to feel about a man he hardly knows, especially when that man caused a ten-minute game delay tonight by hitting a guy so hard he cracked a panel of glass along the boards. But it is there regardless, simmering under the surface of Magnus’ skin.

 

He can already tell, judging by their conversation, that Alec isn’t the type of person that actually expects that in his life, perhaps even _wants_ it. But Magnus likes having goals, especially if he can find one or two outside of hockey. And given how pathetically dim his social life is likely going to be for the foreseeable future, he makes a vow to himself, right here and now, to claim this goal as his own if only for lack of anything better to do with his spare time.

 

Besides, it’s always nice to have something else to add to your resume. And _Magnus Bane: Protector of Lost Puppy Giants_ certainly has a nice ring to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny Primer: Gordie Howe was a suuuuper famous, tough as nails type hockey player back in the day, and the Gordie Howe Hat Trick is an unofficial thing named after him. It's where a player gets a goal, assist, and a five-minute major penalty for fighting in the same game.


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you okay?”

 

Alec turns his head from where he’s spent the last five minutes staring out the window of the car, sliding his eyes in the direction of the voice belonging to the person whose hand is currently resting on his thigh.

 

“Huh?”

 

Lydia laughs gently at him and smiles, giving his thigh a squeeze.

 

“I asked if you were okay. We are, at some point, going to have to get out of the car. Unless you just want to spend the night in here. Do they let limos through drive thrus? Because we could always hit up Taco Bell. I know how much you love a good Mexican pizza.”

 

It’s true. Alec does love a good Mexican pizza. But he knows Lydia is just humoring him and so he smiles back at her, squeezes the hand still attached to his thigh, and says a quiet, “I’m ready,” that’s at least seventy-five percent lie.

 

Okay, maybe ninety percent.

 

His parents had insisted on the limo despite the fact that they know it makes him uncomfortable to be let out of a stretch at the curb like some sort of freaking celebrity. But outside of actual hockey competition, this is the biggest night of the organization’s year: The thousand dollars a plate, Blackhawks Charity Extravaganza. And so there’s no way Robert and Maryse Lightwood are letting either of their grown children arrive in their own vehicles, not even Izzy’s Porsche.

 

His mud-stained, seven-year-old SUV that used to be black but has now been sun-bleached to the sort of gray you see in zombie movies? That he gets. But the Porsche?

 

Lydia links arms with him as soon as he’s done helping her out, and it’s comforting, having her here. She’s been one of his best friends ever since the day two and a half years ago when they agreed to be each other’s beards. A partnership they’d concocted to both hide the fact that he’s gay and that she’s currently dating his bisexual sister.

 

Although their parents aren’t necessarily homophobic in the strictest sense of the term, they are professionally disapproving of any lifestyle other than _straight, white, polite_. And given how deeply they own almost every aspect of his and his sister’s existence, they’ve always just found it easier to hide the truth from them instead of dealing with the consequences of honesty. Which is why his arrangement with Lydia has been one of the best things in both his and Izzy’s life.

 

Alec gets to keep his parents off his back, and Izzy gets to stick it to them by secretly having her girlfriend at family functions. It’s a win-win.

 

Lydia looks beautiful tonight in this sleeveless, pearl colored number with, like, beads and stuff everywhere. A dress that matches the jacket Izzy made him wear because she said she couldn’t stand the thought of him going to one more of these things in his normal _black on black on bland_ fare.

 

He feels like an idiot in the off white jacket with something called _brocade_ that she picked out specifically because of how well it matched Lydia’s dress. Like he’s going to look like a freaking waiter or something. But Izzy had threatened to burn everything in his closet if he tried to wear his old black one and so he’d caved like he always does with her.

 

It’s too visible. He feels _too visible_ , like he can’t just blend into the background in this. And these kinds of functions are usually bad enough as is. But now that he has to walk around in a jacket that practically screams _I am interesting, come talk to me_ , he sort of wants to run back to the limo and take Lydia up on her not-real Taco Bell offer.

 

Maybe if he spills hot sauce on the jacket, Izzy will let him take it off.

 

He always hopes that he’ll feel better once he’s inside, like just crossing the threshold will magically make the nerves disappear. But just like the other four times he’s been forced to come to this function, stepping through the door does nothing but make him feel even more like he’s going to puke. And who needs hot sauce when he can just vomit all over himself, right?

 

They make the obligatory rounds first, kissing his father’s Stanley Cup ring and telling his mother how beautiful she looks before making small talk with the other bigwigs whose names Alec can never remember. Which is another reason why Lydia is one of the greatest people in existence. Because not only does she know who these people are, but she can actually engage them in conversation that sounds vastly more human than the grunting he’s usually capable of. And so he’s almost sort of close to calm when his eyes trail towards the door and all semblance of balance slips from within him like a flash flood.

 

Magnus looks stunning. There is no word in the English language better capable of describing the way he looks tonight, given that Alec is literally stunned into both silence and paralysis when he sees him walk in.

 

If Alec thought his outfit screamed _interest_ , it’s nothing compared to what Magnus is wearing tonight: Black tuxedo pants, a black, bond-collared shirt with shiny silver buttons done all the way up his neck, topped off with this deep burgundy velour jacket that perfectly compliments the shock of magenta in his hair. His eyeliner so thick that Alec can see it from fifty feet out, and he’s too freaking _stunned_ by it all that it takes him a good minute to realize that Magnus is not alone.

 

There’s a woman with him, beautiful, actually. She’s dark skinned, covered from neck to foot in blue silk that perfectly matches the deep blue of her eyes. And it’s weird, the way his emotions are seesawing here, high as a freaking kite upon seeing Magnus, and buried six feet under upon seeing his date.

 

Date.

 

Magnus brought a date.

 

And yeah, technically Alec did too. And also technically there’s nothing between them… nothing that should make _dates_ feel weird and sad and stupid. But Alec’s heart is racing right now, and he sort of feels like he can’t breathe, and so he’s just about to head off in search of a paper bag when Lydia rests her hand in the crook of his elbow and drags him back down to earth.

 

“Everything all right up there?” she asks softly enough so as not to be heard by anyone else but him.

 

He just pinches his lips and nods, though, because Magnus is making his way over to them and so spoken words are going to have to be back-burnered for the time being.

 

“You must be Magnus,” Lydia says once it evidently becomes obvious to her that no one else is going to open up the conversation. “I’m Lydia.”

 

“It’s good to meet you, Lydia,” Magnus replies as he takes Lydia’s outstretched hand in his own. “This is Catarina.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Catarina,” Lydia says, and Alec is dizzy. It’s dizzy in here. _He’s_ dizzy in it. _In here_. But he’s also being introduced right now by a soft elbow into his side and Lydia speaking the words, “And this is Alec,” and so he’s pretty sure he has to act like a person right now.

 

“I’m Alec,” he says, which was already established. But at least he got his name right and so he’s going to take that as a win as beautiful, blue Catarina reaches out to shake his hand.

 

He wants to go home. Wants to make a pit stop at Taco Bell, buy six Mexican pizzas and sit on his couch in his underwear watching ESPN _so badly right now_. But he knows if he bolts his parents will disown him, maybe ship him off to Columbus or something, and so he tries to swallow down the lump in the back of his throat and stays put.

 

The girls are talking a second later, their voices a soft hum in the back of his distracted brain. And he’s just thinking about how nice it is to eat Mexican food in nothing but your underwear because then if you spill on yourself, at least you’re not staining your clothes, when Magnus leans up and says directly into his ear, “Nice tux.”

 

That’s it. That’s what does it. Magnus is far too attractive for Alec to be this sober.

 

They split back off into their original pairs a few polite minutes later, but the damage has already been done. Alec’s brain might as well be a giant bag of cats right now, but like, shaken up so that the cats are extra special pissed. And so the first waiter he sees carrying one of those trays of free drinks they have at shindigs like this is suddenly his new best friend.

 

He grabs two glasses and tries not to feel bad about the look on Lydia’s face when she realizes one of them is not for her.

 

Alec doesn’t drink much, and he almost _never_ drinks during the season for about a dozen or so very logical, practical reasons. But it’s the kind of thing he simply can’t help as he watches Magnus lead his date around the party, his hand practically glued to the small of her back.

 

A part of him wonders if he should try and figure out when this happened. When his stupid bag of cats brain went from _Magnus is really great at hockey gee isn’t he swell_ to _holy shit Magnus is really fucking attractive fucking hell_. But he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to go far beyond the night one week ago today that Magnus and he shared a hotel room while Magnus slept in his clothes. And all of a sudden he really, _really_ hates the juvenile dipshits he calls teammates.

 

If only they hadn’t soaked Magnus’ sheets.

 

He’s watching Magnus and Catarina dance sometime later. He’s not entirely sure where Lydia went, but the nice champagne waiters are sure easy to find. Which is why he’s downing his fourth glass – _flute?_ – and which is also why he’s feeling more than a little lightheaded as Magnus and his date move around the dance floor like professionals because _of course_. But so Alec is dealing with _all of that_ when his sister comes up to talk to him like she’s got the same damn ESP Jace has.

 

Extra Sensory _PissoffAlec-tion_.

 

“He’s a good dancer,” she says to break the ice as she nudges Alec over to clear some leaning space for herself against the pillar he called dibs on twenty minutes ago.

 

“Don’t,” he warns.

 

“Don’t what?”

 

“Don’t be… _you_ ,” he replies as he drains the last drop from his flute-glass and sets it on the floor by his feet.

 

“I really have no idea what you’re implying, Alec. All I said was that he’s a good dancer.”

 

“Yeah, and one who already has a partner.”

 

He hates the way he sounds when he says that, how his voice is just… like... miserable. Dark and low and sad and where are those damn waiters when you need them?

 

Izzy laughs, which never ceases to dampen his mood.

 

“She’s his agent, you idiot.”

 

He most definitely does not care about that fact, but he still looks down at Izzy and asks, “How do you know?”

 

“Because I spent an hour getting chewed out by her after that press conference. You know, the one the good dancer did _for you_.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“We both know that’s not happening. I think you should ask him out.”

 

The groan that escapes from Alec’s lips sounds like something out of a science fiction movie. Like the alien from the black lagoon or something.

 

“What?” she asks, all feigned innocence and tiny person obnoxiousness.

 

“What, Izzy? What? Even if he was interested, which, let’s be honest,” he pauses there to raise his hands and look down at himself, “is a pretty big _if_ , then what?”

 

“What do you mean _a pretty big if_?” she asks, completely bypassing the point of his… point.

 

“I’m an asshole, Iz. People aren’t generally attracted to assholes, and the ones who are often have something wrong with them that I don’t have the time or energy to deal with.”

 

“You’re not an asshole,” she says all genuine and stuff, her hand rising to rest on his arm. But all he does is shrug her off because that so totally was not where he was going with this.

 

“I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m just trying to make a point.”

 

“Well I’m sorry, but when my dear, sweet older brother tries to make a point by spewing the horseshit our asshole parents have beaten into us over the years, I tend to get a little testy.”

 

Alec rolls his eyes.

 

“My _point_ , Izzy, is that even if he were interested, then what?”

 

“Alec, if you don’t know the _then what_ , I think we have bigger things to worry about here.”

 

“Funny. What I mean is, why the hell would I make a pass at a teammate? In the middle of a potential Cup run? What am I, an idiot?”

 

She blinks up at him like she thinks she already knows the answer to that question better than he does.

 

“How does that play out, huh? We’re what? Fuck buddies? And then what? One person wants more and the other doesn’t? Or worse, both people want more and then… then secret dating? Putting mental energy into figuring out how to work that crap out while the media is already circling him like buzzards?”

 

He pauses again, this time to catch his breath.

 

“I’m pretty sure you know what would happen if mom and dad found out about either one of us,” he says, waving his arm a bit wildly between him and his sister. “But so we want it. Sure. We try it. Try to hide it. But that takes energy, Iz. Energy that should be focused on one thing. And what is that one thing?”

 

“Hockey?” she asks as she crosses her arms over her chest and glares up at him.

 

“Yes. Hockey. Our job. Playing hockey for the team we are _both_ on. The team that I’m the _captain_ of, which means it’s my responsibility to maintain the order. The balance. The _chemistry_. And although I do not as of yet have any personal experience with this, I’m pretty sure that two players in the same locker room fucking each other is not the best thing for team-wide bonding.”

 

“Jeez, Alec, _fine._ I wasn’t saying you should marry the guy or anything, I was just suggesting drinks.”

 

He makes this _pfft_ sound at her and grabs another glass of champagne from the waiter passing through his peripheral.

 

“Yeah, well, I don’t have time for drinks. I have a team to take care of.”

 

He storms off at that, confident that he won the argument. But for some reason it doesn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it makes him feel _worse_ as he finishes off his third (fourth? fifth?) glass of champagne and heads out to the balcony to get some air.

 

As is wont to happen when he is mostly drunk and breathing semi-fresh, kind of smoggy air, Alec has an idea. And after another two glasses of champagne, he actually has the courage to put that idea into motion.

 

It starts with the bed sheets. With the night that ruined his tenuous grip on sanity combined with the fact that he never actually made it up to Magnus for doing that stupid press conference for him. And so Alec has _an idea_.

 

The first step is to figure out who did it. And he has a pretty good guess, but he still wants to be one hundred percent sure and so he goes to Simon. Because given how much he and Raphael are attached at the hip, if anyone other than his surly _I’ll never tell you, copper_ defenseman knows who was allowed into Magnus’ room to play the prank, it’s Simon.

 

It would almost be surprising how easy it is to get the information out of him if not for the fact that he already knew, years ago, that Simon was a complete pushover. So all it takes is one thinly veiled threat about taking Simon’s lucky jockstrap and selling it on Ebay to get him to crack open like a piñata.

 

He knew it was Jace. From minute freaking _one_ he knew it was Jace. But now he has confirmation.

 

Step two is to acquire assistance, and given that all of this is being done for Magnus, he figures he’d be the best partner to have in this little caper.

 

He’s dateless at the moment. And Alec wonders vaguely about fancy party black holes that swallow dates, about Lydia and Catarina, trapped in some alternate dimension maybe, as he walks up to where Magnus is currently discussing something no doubt boring as hell with Raphael and Raj.

 

He wraps one hand lightly around Magnus’ elbow and leans down possibly closer than he needs to. But he really wants to make sure he’s not overheard for the sake of their secret crime caper as he says, directly into Magnus’ ear, “Can I borrow you for a sec?”

 

He almost, _almost_ says _sex_ instead of _sec_. And there’s no almost about the assumption that if he’d actually done that, he would’ve ended up running from the room cackling like the Joker.

 

Magnus looks up at him and nods, just that, a simple nod. And then Alec is tugging him out of the room by his elbow because he forgot that politeness dictates you let adults walk on their own.

 

“Is everything all right?” Magnus asks once they’re safely out on the balcony.

 

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. I’m _terrific_. And I’ve got a present for you.”

 

Alec cannot actually describe the look on Magnus’ face. It’s like when you used to have to use crappy internet, and your video would freeze halfway between a shot, with like one half of the person’s face frozen in one expression and the other half frozen in another.

 

“What kind of present?”

 

Alec does not have time to dwell on how… like… _smooth_ Magnus' voice sounds as the weight of the very empty, very secluded balcony he just lured Magnus to starts to suck in around them.

 

“Vengeance.”

 

He meant it to sound cool, like the closing line of some cliffhanger scene in a TV show. But the way Magnus is scrunching his eyes at him leads Alec to believe that he missed the mark.

 

“For the prank,” he elaborates. “You know, the soaked bed sheets?”

 

“Ah,” Magnus says, only it’s more like _ahhhhhhhh_. And Alec must look really crestfallen that Magnus didn’t jump with glee at his gift because a second later Magnus is actually reaching a hand out to him and resting it on his arm as he says, “That is very thoughtful of you, Alec. What did you have in mind?”

 

He looks down at where Magnus’ hand is still wrapped over off white brocade, his black fingernails stark in contrast. And his mouth feels sort of sticky, like he could really use another drink as the words, “Do you trust me?” slip raw from between his lips.

 

When he slides his eyes back up again, Magnus is just staring at him, something almost dark pooling in the brown of his eyes as he nods his head. And the smile that works its way across Alec’s lips is one he only breaks out on very special occasions.

 

It’s crooked, devious, and it perfectly matches his tone when he says, “Good. Follow my lead.”

 

Step three is the most difficult one of the bunch, as it involves somehow getting Jace’s phone away from him without his knowledge. And Alec only needs about sixty seconds with it, but for someone who might as well have his phone permanently fused to his hand like Jace, sixty seconds is going to be difficult.

 

They wait until he’s alone, dicking around on it like usual, probably posting asinine crap on Twitter. And then it’s Magnus’ turn to be the distraction. Which is something he’s been excelling at all night if Alec is any judge of the situation.

 

He’s got two glasses of whiskey in his hands, Jace’s favorite, as he saunters over to where Jace is standing. And they needed to make sure he was by a table, conveniently at his side, because when Magnus asks Jace to hold both glasses, they need Jace to put his phone on the table and not in his pocket.

 

There’s no way Alec is fishing around in Jace’s pockets for anything. Ever.

 

The ploy works. So when Magnus does this little pivot move to pull Jace’s peripheral away from the phone, Alec swoops in and grabs it like a freaking ninja. And then, sixty seconds later, he swoops back in and replaces it while Magnus and Jace finish their whiskeys and Jace, as per usual, is none the wiser.

 

This is going so much better than he expected.

 

Step four is the fun part, the _easy_ part. The part where Alec uses his phone to text Jace only thanks to the way he switched out Jace’s contacts, whatever Alec types is going to come up as if it is from Clary, Jace’s longtime girlfriend who seems to have also slipped into the date black hole.

 

But so the text will be from Alec, but Jace will think it’s from Clary. And it’s possible that Alec is too drunk to be doing something like this but he does it anyway because he and Magnus are having fun together, both laughing at the high of the prank. And Magnus is kind of draped over him right now, looking down at Alec’s hands, Alec’s phone. And so even though the smart part of his brain is sounding off all sorts of sirens and warning bells, Alec still types the text out exactly like he planned:

 

_I’m sorry I couldn’t say this to your face, Jace. I’ve been trying to think of some way to tell you all night but I just couldn’t figure it out. I’m pregnant._

Alec hits send. And then they wait.

 

It doesn’t take long for Jace to freak out, and it doesn’t take long for him to find Clary either. And as the two of them argue safely out of earshot, Magnus has his arm wrapped so tightly around Alec’s it’s practically cutting off his circulation. They’re laughing again, though, laughing still, watching the show only about a minute into the program, there’s an unexpected twist when Clary decks Jace so hard he actually falls to the ground.

 

Oh.

 

Shit.

 

Jace is looking at his phone a second later, is pushing some buttons and then Alec’s phone is ringing and that’s his cue to get the fuck out of Dodge.

 

He grabs Magnus’ hand, his cheeks warm from the way he’s probably blushing like a moron as he says, “Come on,” and begins tugging him again. And then they’re running, laughing, trying to find a place to hide and really, Alec doesn’t know why he doesn’t drink more often because this is _fun_.

 

He is having so much fun.

 

He’s laughing so hard he’s almost hiccupping when they duck inside a closet and close the door so they're enshrouded in near pitch black. But it’s like the second the door closes and the light disappears, reality comes crashing around his feet.

 

Magnus is really close. Like, _really close_ , close enough to feel his breath on his skin, to smell the bitter pinch of whiskey mixed with something sweeter that actually manages to make Alec’s mouth water. And he’s holding Magnus’ elbows now, feeling the weight of Magnus’ palms pressed against his chest as Magnus leans against him for balance. And in all of that, Alec realizes that this was probably a very, _very_ bad idea.

 

“Magnus, I,” he starts to say, but at that moment they hear screaming outside the door. Jace’s voice carrying to them through thin plywood and so Magnus’ hand is flat over Alec’s mouth inside of a second.

 

“Shhhh,” he says, the hush warm on Alec’s skin. And he can’t really make out Magnus’ face in the dark like this, but it’s almost like there’s a glint in his eyes, sharp and bright, and Alec feels sort of like he’s going to pass out.

 

He moves his lips against Magnus’ palm, which causes this odd, heated noise to escape Magnus as he twists his fingers in Alec’s stupid brocade jacket. And Alec can taste salt now, from the sweat on Magnus’ palm, and it strikes him that there’s a very good chance that he is actually, right here and now, kissing Magnus’ palm like a freaking moron.

 

Thankfully Magnus slides his hand down then, but he doesn’t go far with it, just low enough to trail his fingers along Alec’s bottom lip. And it takes every single ounce of self-control he has not to open his mouth and use his tongue to pull Magnus’ fingers in.

 

Even though it’s dark in here, he can feel Magnus staring up at him, can sense the tension in the way Magnus is shaking slightly up against him, his fingers still just moving slowly back and forth over Alec’s lip. And the only word Alec can seem to think right now is _abort._

 

Abort, abort, _abort_.

 

But his eyes are starting to adjust to the light, and there are currently two Magnuses standing in front of him and he really wants to, like, kiss the shit out of both of them. And he’s maybe just drunk enough to do it as his hands tighten around Magnus’ elbows. Only the second he goes to open his mouth, the closet is flooded with light.

 

“Got you, asshole!” Jace yells. And then he’s grabbing Alec’s jacket, hauling him out of the closet and bending him over far enough to get him in a headlock. And Alec sort of wants to cry right now for a lot of reasons as Jace starts spinning him around the hallway like now that he’s got Alec he’s not entirely sure what to do with him.

 

He’s dizzy again. _So very dizzy_. And the nausea he’s been battling all night is working inside of him, pressing at his ribs. And so he says, “Jace, I think I’m gonna,” only he doesn’t even get out the word _puke_ before he’s doing just that. All over Jace’s shoes.

 

It is in this exact moment that Alec remembers why he doesn’t drink.

 

“Dude, these shoes cost five hundred dollars!” Jace shrieks, his voice a dull echo in Alec’s currently throbbing head. And he needs to move. More than anything he needs to _move_ right now, extricate himself from this situation A-freaking-SAP and so he does.

  
He runs.

 

Or, well, he stumbles. Running implies actual coordinated movement. But so he stumbles quickly, as quickly as he can, until he’s outside in the frigid air and then, and only then, does he breathe. But he doesn’t actually allow himself to _think_ until he’s inside a cab, outside a cab, and inside his condo, his arms wrapped around his thankfully-clean-before-tonight toilet bowl as he finishes what he started all over Jace’s five hundred dollar shoes.

 

His phone keeps pinging from the pocket of the jacket he dropped on his couch as he made a mad dash for the bathroom. Because as much as he’d wanted to do it before, Izzy paid a lot for that stupid jacket and he really doesn’t want to get puke on it if he can help it. But he’s ignoring that, his phone, _ping, ping, pinging_ away because there is not a single person he wants to see, hear, or text at this moment.

 

All he wants to do is shrink up into a little ball and disappear. Because even though he’s still pretty damn drunk, he can already tell how massively he fucked up tonight on at least five or six different levels. And sadly, the only way he can think to get out of the quicksand he just stepped into is to disappear.

 

Where the hell is David Blaine when you need him?


	6. Chapter 6

It has become remarkably clear to Magnus that things are not entirely straight in Whoville.

 

He is not stupid. In the past, it is possible that he has taken things a bit further in fantasy than real life strictly implied. But there was something there in that closet. How much of it was alcohol induced, he does not know. Alec was certainly far gone in that regard. But there had been _something there_ , and not just with Magnus and his overactive imagination, but on _both sides._ And so the only conclusion he can come to is that Alec Lightwood cannot possibly be as straight as advertised.

 

Where he is along that line and what precisely his feelings are for Magnus? That’s the Final Jeopardy question right there. But there’s something at least moderately liberating in the realization that he has a shot, even if that shot is from center ice through five defenders and a brick wall of a goaltender.

 

Regardless of what may or may not have happened if Jace didn’t have the worst timing in the world, it’s not Magnus’ place to tell Alec what he’s feeling. And given that Alec hasn’t contacted him, he’s evidently not feeling a burning desire to finish what they almost started. So Magnus has kept his distance in the interim because the last thing he wants to do is startle Alec off before either one of them can get a handle on the situation.

 

The charity ball was the first in a rare stretch of three off days in a row before they head out west for two weeks on something called the “circus trip.” An excursion aptly named due to the fact that they’re being kicked out of their home arena by Barnum and Bailey’s descent for the Thanksgiving season. But so the ball had been the start of what Magnus had assumed would be three blissful, peaceful days off, enjoying his new city. Only he has literally not left his hotel room since he scurried home that night.  

 

After what happened in the closet, he really wanted to get laid. By one person in particular, of course, but he’d been so drunk and spun out that he was willing not to be terribly picky. That is, of course, until his dear friend Catarina pointed out that the reporters were finally calming down around him, finally asking him about _hockey_ again, and so risking a good, solid poke of the hornet’s nest might not be the best thing for him.

 

He absolutely _abhors_ it when Catarina is right about something. About anything, really, but especially when she hits the proverbial nail on the head with regards to his personal life. But he’d still taken her advice and gone home instead of prowling the streets looking for the first tall, broad, dark-haired, hazel-eyed, reasonable facsimile he could find willing to screw him senseless.

 

There had been tiny marks on his elbows when he went to get undressed for bed, light bruises from where Alec’s fingers had dug into him. And there’s a fair chance that he may have pressed his fingers into them in the hopes of worsening the bruising, making them last. But essentially, in all, the night was a near complete disaster.

 

Because she is the cheapest person he knows, Catarina had spent the night in his hotel room instead of getting one of her own. She was only in town for the evening, having had her first in person meeting with the elder Lightwoods during the day, and having agreed to be Magnus’ buffer date for the ball. But all of that had come with the condition that he let her sleep over so she wouldn’t have to shell out a hundred bucks for a place to bed. And so he’d accepted if only because he did not want to go to the ball alone, not when he knew Alec would be there with the lovely blonde.

 

He had insisted that Cat take the bed, and she had insisted he join her. Which is something his pride would have normally rebuked. But he has missed the physical comfort of lying with someone in his arms. So when Cat offered, he accepted.

 

Nothing happened. Nothing would _ever_ happen. But he did get six hours of uninterrupted sleep as the big spoon before she had to catch her flight back to L.A. And so he had been grateful, in the end, even if he thinks he still might have rather done the whole prowling thing.

 

He spent the entirety of his second day off alone in his hotel, eating room service and watching HBO while definitely _not_ staring at his phone in the hopes of developing the telekinetic powers necessary to make it ring. And then he had fallen asleep last night with a half eaten sandwich on his bare stomach, completely alone and spoon-free.

 

Now it’s Thanksgiving. Or, well, pretend Thanksgiving anyway. A party that Alec throws every year the afternoon before the circus trip because when the real Thanksgiving rolls around they will be on the road, living in a hotel. And because Alec is thoughtful. And a good captain. And handsome. Which, that last one has nothing to do with him throwing a good old fashioned Thanksgiving feast for his teammates, but it bears repeating nonetheless.

 

He is _very_ handsome.

 

Magnus had toyed with skipping out. He is still not sure what happened the other evening, and is even less sure if Alec would even want to see him right now outside of anything but the rink. But Alec had not specifically _uninvited_ him, and Raphael had yelled at him when he mentioned possibly ditching. Something about _this is a life-altering eating experience; if you don’t go you will regret it for the rest of your life_ , whatever that means. Which is why he is in Raphael’s car right now, listening to him prattle on about this cheese, bacon and potato casserole Alec made last year that practically had Raphael climaxing, judging by the heated way he’s talking about it.

 

Alec cooks. Of course he does.

 

It is in the middle of this very odd, very uncomfortable food-gasm discussion that Magnus comes to a conclusion on something he’s been batting around listlessly ever since the ball:

 

He really wants to be Alec’s friend.

 

Well. Okay, honestly? He’d like to be more than that. Quite a lot more. But after he finally looked up Alec’s very pretty girlfriend yesterday and realized that she is one of the country’s top female MMA fighters and hence could quite easily kill him with her bare hands with minimal effort, he realized that friend was probably the best he was going to get at the moment.

 

Strangely, he feels like that might be enough. And perhaps he is simply being delusional. He is, after all, _him_. Delusional might as well be his middle name. But he wants Alec in his life, that much he knows. Not as just a captain or teammate or linemate, but in the fabric, stitched in. And so if friend is the only offer on the table, it’s one he’ll gladly accept. 

 

The problem is he’s not entirely sure how to get there. Magnus has never really had to go out and make friends before. People have always just sort of been drawn to him. Often it’s only for short bursts until one party gets tired of the other. But it still leaves him with the odd conclusion that he is not actually sure how to make a person his friend.

 

He wants to try, though. A bit more desperately than he’d be willing to admit to anyone who is an actual living human being. And so the first and most logical step he can think of is to take a step back and let Alec set the pace. Which is what he plans to do today.

 

Alec’s condo is the precise living space one would expect from a highly paid athlete under the age of twenty-five. It’s in a neighborhood called Lakeshore East, in a high rise facing the lake. And it is gorgeous, or it would be anyway if it weren’t decorated in gray scale.

 

That’s so very Alec too. The drab, utilitarian nature of the place, failing to take advantage of the dark, rich hardwood floors, the lofted ceilings or the stunning wall of windows opening out to the water. But for some reason the sterile atmosphere is actually making him smile as he leaves his coat and shoes in the entryway closet while peering into the open expanse of the main living space with something like the warmth of fondness settling in his stomach.

 

“Magnus, good, you’re here,” Jace says rather frantically a moment later, shaking him out of his reverie with a hand clasped firmly around his wrist. “We need some help in the kitchen.”

 

“You need my help, too?” Raphael asks in an overly excited way that hearkens back to their borderline disturbing conversation from the ride in.

 

“You kidding me, Santiago? I’m not letting you anywhere near the food, vulture.”

 

Raphael hisses at Jace, Jace flicks Raphael off with his spare hand, and then Jace is tugging Magnus back towards the kitchen.

 

“I am… sorry about that,” Magnus says once they are Raphael free as he settles his eyes on the rather impressive shiner swirling across the left side of Jace’s face.

 

Jace shrugs.

 

“It’s cool. I mean, I’m totally going to pay both of you back tenfold at an as yet undetermined time, but I can respect a good prank when I come across one. Plus, you know, _hockey player_ , so no one thinks twice if they see me with a black eye. It’s kind of awesome actually, having a girlfriend that can beat the shit out of someone. I wish she hadn’t used those powers on me, but let’s be honest, I probably deserved it, right?”

 

He pauses, turns to Magnus and smiles. But as with most of their conversations, Magnus has neither the will nor the energy to follow all of the random thoughts that pour out of Jace’s mouth in rapid succession. And so he simply smiles, nods, and hopes that covers whatever Jace is looking for from him.

 

It does, judging by the way Jace slaps him good-naturedly on the shoulder before dragging him into the kitchen and saying in this overly proud voice, “I brought another helper!”

 

Whereas the tux Alec wore to the party was too dazzling to have been picked out by him, his current outfit doesn’t seem to fit that bill. Yet the brown pants and black sweater whose color combination would normally be horrifying to Magnus still look almost as arresting as the off white brocade jacket had.

 

It could be because of the relative tightness of the outfit itself, how both the sweater and the pants cling to his muscles. The muscles of Magnus’ _friend_. His friend’s muscles. His friend’s perfectly-sculpted-like-an-angel-reached-down-and-carved-them-out-of-granite muscles. And Magnus usually has far more control over his own thoughts than this, but for a moment, he is lost.

 

He’d been allowed to touch that chest. For a few glorious seconds, he’d been allowed to rest his hands on it, to feel the way Alec’s heart pounded furiously beneath his fingers. And it seems to be the only thing he can think about as he stands in his _friend’s_ kitchen, in a condo full of his teammates, while all the while wishing he could drag Alec back into a closet again in the hopes of recreating whatever stroke of magic brought them there in the first place.  

 

_Friend._

 

“Um, I’ve got everything pretty much covered,” Alec says, his eyes a bit wider than usual as they linger on Magnus in a way he’s sure is totally innocuous. Friendly. Because they are friends.

 

“Yeah, well, you might be able to do six things at once, but I only have two hands,” Jace bites out petulantly. “So if you don’t want the help, Magnus can come work at my station, Chef Ass Hat.”

 

He hands Magnus a spoon before grabbing him by his shoulders and steering him towards a pot of something simmering on the stove that smells like literal heaven.

 

“What is that?” Magnus asks, leaning over to get a better whiff.

 

“Ham and sweet potato soup,” Alec explains. “It’s for the first course.”

 

Magnus looks to Jace with eyes getting wider by the second. “There are multiple courses?”

 

The smile that spreads across Jace’s face reaches all the way to his ears. “Oh yeah, there are _courses for days_.”

 

Suddenly, Magnus is beginning to properly understand why Raphael had told him to not eat breakfast today.

 

A short while later, while in the middle of following Alec’s neatly handwritten, incredibly detailed instructions on how to assemble the very same casserole Raphael had been going on about, another guest enters the kitchen. And Magnus can feel the temperature drop a good ten degrees before he even turns his head to see who has joined them.

 

“Alec, may I speak with you for a moment?” Mrs. Lightwood says. But though it is a question, it is very clear to everyone present that Alec’s response is not one he is allowed to make on his own.

 

She leads him into the adjoining dining room. And although Magnus fears the consequences of messing up his current task – Raphael might _literally_ kill him if he screws this one up – he can’t help but let at least half of his attention be pulled off in Alec’s wake.

 

He cannot make out what they are saying. Or should he say what Alec’s mother is saying, given that it doesn’t seem Alec is actually an active participant in their conversation. But just as he is becoming frustrated at the fact that they are not talking loudly enough to be eavesdropped, Jace comes up and takes the utensils out of his hand.

 

He bumps his hip into Magnus’, his eyes cast down at Alec’s recipe card as if he is trying to pretend that he did not just tell Magnus to go listen in on his best friend’s very private discussion with his mother. But Magnus is not the type of person to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so he goes.

 

He is unable to see Maryse from his hiding place near the door, but since he cares very little for her in this equation he is not bothered by that fact. What he _is_ bothered by, however, is the way Alec is standing – his hands clasped behind his back, his head tipped down to the ground, his eyes locked on a patch a few feet in front of him like a perfectly cowed underling.

 

“I expect better from you,” Maryse says, her voice tight and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

 

And Alec’s voice is so small it physically pains Magnus when he says a quick, “Yes, mother.”

 

“Jace’s girlfriend punched him in the face in the middle of our most important function of the year, and it is all because you allowed yourself to become… distracted.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

 

“I am not looking for apologies, Alec; I am looking for _obedience_. The respectability of this team is on your shoulders. You have an obligation to your teammates, to your family, to your _city_ to uphold a certain sense of order and decorum. We have entrusted you with that responsibility, believing that you were capable of upholding it. Upholding the Lightwood legacy. But if you are no longer capable of that…”

 

Magnus rolls his eyes at the way she trails off warningly, because he knew this woman was ridiculous. There are plenty of stories circulating through town about that. But the way she’s talking to Alec like he’s some sort of high prince instead of a hockey player is simply that. 

 

_Ridiculous._

Alec doesn’t seem to think so, though, given the way he looks like he wants to melt into the floor when he says an even quieter, “I’m still capable of it.” And Magnus wishes he were in a position where he could go to Alec’s aid, give Maryse a piece of his own mind. But that is not his place and he knows it, and so he holds his tongue.

 

“Your father and I will not soon forget this, Alec, and I hope you do not either. There is far too much at stake here for you to pull anything like this again, do you understand me?”

 

He looks up at her, his face completely blank as he utters the words, “Yes, ma’am,” like an emotionless pod person.

 

“Good. Then you may get back to work.”

 

Magnus does his best to back quickly away from the door when she says that, but she still manages to find cause to glare at him when she reenters the kitchen. Her death stare only lasting a few seconds before she heads over to where Jace is still working on the casserole.

 

“How is your eye, dear?” she asks as she takes Jace’s face softly in her hands, tipping it toward the light. And the difference between how she just treated her own son and how she is now doting on Jace is startling to him.

 

“It’s fine, Maryse,” Jace replies. “No harm, no foul.”

 

But according to what Magnus just witnessed, there was plenty of harm done by one incredibly foul woman.

 

He can’t stand to look at this particular spectacle anymore, not with the image of a browbeaten Alec still fresh in his mind. But when he turns his gaze back to the dining room, his mood is not helped by what he finds.

 

Alec is still just standing there, in the same position he was in when his mother left. Only now he is chewing on his bottom lip and the hands clasped behind his back are wrung together like he is a finely crafted ham and sweet potato soup ready to boil over.

 

He leaves a moment later, Alec does, heading out the other side of the dining room. And Magnus is smart enough to know that he might just want a minute alone to himself, and yet he is also dumb enough to follow him.

 

He finds Alec in the hallway, slipping into his shoes and reaching for his coat. And again, Magnus concedes that this is probably none of his business, and is hence something he should simply back away from. And yet he finds himself saying, “Running away from your own party?” in a voice that he hopes sounds lighter than it feels, stuck in his chest. Because when he sees someone that needs help, he can’t seem to resist reaching out and helping.

 

It’s a curse, really. One he blames entirely on his loving grandmother.

 

“What?” Alec asks, his eyes blinking furiously at Magnus like the last thing he was expecting right now was another person. “Um… no… I just ran out of something… of rolls. I need more rolls.”

 

“Ah,” Magnus says with a cordial nod. And he is going to leave it at that, he swears. Only he must be currently possessed by the spirit of someone far more nosey and intrusive than him because he finds himself asking, “Want company?” even though it is painfully clear that Alec just wants to run away and be alone.

 

Except, maybe he doesn’t. Because a second later he is looking up at Magnus with something almost resembling hope in his eyes as he says, “Yeah, I’d love some.”

 

And that is how Magnus finds himself bundling up for an outdoor excursion to join Prince Alec Lightwood on his quest for mythical dinner rolls.

 

Alec leads them out the front of the building instead of down to the garage, which is strange given that Magnus does not recall seeing any grocery stores within walking distance on his way in. But like he said with his plan earlier, he is perfectly content to let Alec take the lead right now, even if that lead means he does not get to huddle in a heated vehicle at the moment.

 

“I have a confession to make,” Alec blurts out once they have walked roughly two and a half blocks in utter silence.

 

“Okay,” Magnus replies, his voice as controlled as he can make it while his insides attempt to revolt at those few simple words of Alec’s.

 

“I didn’t need rolls.”

 

“Ah,” Magnus says, and he almost laughs at himself for being so ridiculous, as if he thought Alec would somehow choose now to say _I am not straight and I want to have sex with you_ or something equally preposterous like that.

 

He really needs to get a handle on himself.

 

“I kind of assumed that,” Magnus continues to fill the renewed silence. “You seem like the type of person that would make perfect roll related calculations and then overcompensate by ten percent.”

 

“Fifteen,” Alec says, his voice a touch stronger now than it was before as a small smile tugs at his lips.

 

And so in spite of the frigid air, Magnus is being one hundred percent truthful when he says, “It’s okay to just walk,” because it is.

 

He will walk with Alec wherever he wants to go right now, so long as he keeps smiling.

 

“That was pretty rough in there,” Magnus ventures a minute or so later, waiting a few seconds to gauge Alec’s response to his admission that he was eavesdropping.

 

When Alec does and says nothing, Magnus continues.

 

“If I am overstepping, please tell me to stop, but your mother? She was out of line in there. There was no cause for her to treat you that way.”

 

Alec shrugs in a way that implies he is far too used to this kind of treatment from his parents.

 

“She wasn’t wrong.”

 

Magnus actually laughs at that, just a small puff of one because it is far too cold out here for the real thing, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

 

“I think that I am going to have to respectfully disagree with you there.”

 

“You’re joking, right?” Alec asks as he casts incredulous eyes down at where Magnus is still walking beside him. “You were there. You saw what I did.”

 

“You were having fun, Alec. At a very stuffy, very dull party.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not paid to have fun. I’m paid to uphold the family image.”

 

In spite of the cold, Magnus laughs far more deeply this time, which garners a rather strange look from Alec.

 

“I am sorry, it’s just… that sounds like something out of the 1800s, Alec. Like you are some longsuffering heroine in a Jane Austen novel.”

 

Alec’s only response this time is an agitated huff.

 

“Look, I get it, your family cares about public opinion,” Magnus continues, making sure to soften his tone in the hopes of pulling Alec back to the Land of Smiles and Normalcy. “Trust me, I understand how that can be a slippery slope. But you’re a human being, Alec, not a robot. At least, I’m assuming you are. I haven’t had time to inspect you for a control panel just yet.”

 

Alec looks at him again, something almost playful toying at the edge of his expression. And so Magnus, being Magnus, doubles down.

 

“I’d be willing to do a strip search if you’d like,” he says as he bumps his shoulder into Alec. “If you’re worried about the state of your own humanity.”

 

He feels so stupid here, reckless in a way that seems silly, given how they are simply _talking_. But it feels like more than that, like _so much more_ , especially when Alec’s face softens like a jagged ice cube melting on hot pavement and Magnus’ insides melt right along with it.

 

“I’m glad you had fun,” he finishes, because that’s true too. With or without the closet, he is simply glad that Alec had a short span of time in which he allowed himself to be a twenty-three year old man, nothing more.

 

“It was nice, seeing you enjoy your self somewhere other than the rink.”

 

“It was nice?” Alec asks, and his tone is weird now, as is the look on his face. Half expectant and half something else that Magnus cannot quite pin down as his steps slow and he gazes down at Magnus in a way that makes him feel shaky and imbalanced.

 

“Yes,” Magnus replies through the increasing tightness in his throat. “It was very nice.”

 

For a moment, just one fleeting _moment_ , he is here, Alec is. The Alec from the closet. The one from the party. The laughing, open, happy Alec is _right here_ until something in the air or his head or _somewhere_ flicks the switch and locks him back down again.

 

“Well, it’s not going to happen again. The drunkenness I mean. Even if I was having fun, I can only remember half of it at most anyway. And the majority of that is taken up by Jace getting punched and me puking all over a five hundred dollar pair of shoes I now need to replace.”

 

“That was pretty hilarious,” Magnus says brightly in order to cover the disappointment he feels at wondering specifically which half of the evening Alec does not recall. “The punch at least. The puking, not as much. That Clary girl, though, she has got a very nice right hook.”

 

“Yeah,” Alec says with something like reverence. “I don’t know how she’s never punched him before. It’s a daily struggle for me not to do it every time he opens his mouth.”

 

Magnus laughs, and this time, Alec joins him.

 

“She must be some sort of angel sent straight from heaven to him,” Magnus supplies, and the look on Alec’s face when he casts his eyes down this time quite literally takes Magnus’ breath away.

 

It’s not desire, not quite anyway. There’s very little heat to it, it is simply _warm_ , open, and softer than any expression Magnus has ever seen him wear as he says quietly, “Yeah, like an angel,” while staring directly into Magnus’ eyes.

 

It is entirely possible that Magnus is going to fail miserably at this whole friend thing.

 

They happen upon a sunglasses boutique a few silent minutes later, and the way Alec slows his steps and looks inside with the sort of longing one often sees on the faces of children in front of candy and/or toy stores leads Magnus to believe that he would like to peruse.

 

“Do you want to go in?” he asks.

 

“What?” Alec responds as if he was yet again startled to realize he was not actually alone. “No. I’m pretty sure everything in there is out of my price range.”

 

Magnus scrunches his eyes at that. Deeply.

 

“Does your mother have you on a strict allowance or something?” he asks, but all Alec does in response is glare. “Your condo seems to imply that you understand how to spend money, Alec. I think some nice sunglasses are well within your budget.”

 

“Eh, it’s too big,” he says, clearly referring to the condo and not the budget. “I only moved into that building because Jace did and he made me.”

 

“Tell me something, do you do everything Jace asks you to do?”

 

Alec bites the corner of his lip before saying, “I should probably pause and pretend to think about that to make myself seem less pathetic, but yeah. I pretty much do.”

 

Something warm flushes through Magnus’ blood at the admission, prompting him to reach his hand out to Alec.

 

“Come on,” he says, “Jace would want you to go in there and buy yourself a very expensive pair of sunglasses. I am certain of it. In fact, I could get him on the phone if you would like, so he can tell you himself. Or you could just take my word for it.”

 

Alec stares at Magnus for a few seconds, his eyes lingering on his face before they slide down to Magnus’ still outstretched hand. And he feels ridiculous for the umpteenth time today, standing out here on the sidewalk like this, practically praying for Alec to take his hand. But when he does, it’s like somehow the world is locking into place.

 

He is _such_ a melodramatic nutcase.

 

In some strange twist of fate, the pair of them stumble into some romantic comedy clothing store montage. Only instead of suits or dresses, they spend at least twenty minutes trying on sunglasses, handing pairs off to each other, laughing the whole way through. And Magnus has been on all sorts of dates before, but even though he knows this is not technically that, it is still quite possibly the best one he has ever had.

 

He and Camille danced at the foot of the Eiffel Tower in the rain, and somehow, trying on sunglasses like a teenager with Alec Lightwood is a thousand times better.

 

How in the world did this happen to him?

 

He can tell when Alec finds a pair that he actually likes because he takes them on and off his face five times before putting them back on the rack.

 

“Why don’t you buy them?” Magnus asks as he retrieves the sunglasses as if he thinks someone else will swoop in and buy them even though they are the only two customers in the entire store.

 

“They cost six hundred dollars. It’s stupid to buy sunglasses that expensive when I can go to Target and get a pair for under thirty bucks.”

 

Alec’s words actually cause a pain to spread through Magnus’ chest.

 

“You are joking, right? Please tell me that you’re joking?”

 

Alec furrows his brow and crosses his arms over his chest. “What?”

 

“Alec, you do realize that you are a millionaire, right? I mean, I assume you were present when you signed your last contract.”

 

“Just because I have money that doesn’t mean I need to waste it on frivolous stuff.”

 

The pain in his chest continues to spread.

 

“Looking good is not frivolous. It is our _duty_.”

 

Alec snorts at Magnus’ very valid claim.

 

“Really? Duty? That’s the word you want to use here?”

 

“When one lives in the public eye, Alexander, it is one’s _duty_ to dress to impress.”

 

Alec is looking at him oddly when he says that, his lips slightly parted and his eyes open a touch wider than normal like there was something almost shocking in what Magnus just spoke.

 

“Are you okay?” Magnus asks.

 

“What? Yeah. It’s just… you called me Alexander.”

 

“Oh. I’m sorry. Is that a bad thing?”

 

“No,” Alec bites out as he reaches his hand out like he wants to touch Magnus before thinking better of it and retreating back to himself. “I… I like it.”

 

His chest is still hurting, but now it is for an entirely different reason as he says, “Okay then, _Alexander_ , as I was saying,” but the way Alec is smiling at him right now almost makes Magnus lose all command of the English language.

 

“You need to look good,” he finishes valiantly, adding a bold, “In fact, you should let me take you suit shopping sometime,” to the end because he’s feeling reckless today, so he might as well throw caution to the wind. He is, after all, in the Windy City, right?

 

“What’s wrong with my suits?” Alec asks in this offended tone that is so adorable it makes Magnus want to adopt a herd of fluffy kittens.

 

“I’m not going to dignify that question with a response because I think you already know the answer to it.”

 

Alec opens his mouth to speak, but whatever he was going to say is swallowed up in the buzzing of his cell phone.

 

“Hold on a sec,” he groans as he looks at the caller ID before turning his back and walking away from the counter. And because Alec didn’t seem to mind his eavesdropping of earlier, Magnus feels like it can’t hurt to do it again.

 

“Jace, calm down,” Alec says, and for a brief moment Magnus is worried that something truly awful happened at the condo in their absence. Only any fear he has is flushed away when Alec says, “Just take it out of the oven.”

 

Magnus laughs lightly as he takes the sunglasses over to the cashier while Alec’s conversation continues to hum in the background.

 

“You know it’s done because the timer went off,” he says as the cashier smiles warmly out at Magnus and takes his offered credit card. “Just… can you just stop being a freaking spaz for five seconds? I’ll be home in ten minutes, just take the damn thing out of the oven. And use oven mitts.”

 

There’s a pause in which both Magnus and the cashier wait with bated breath for the conclusion of Alec’s conversation.

 

“That was not a joke, asshole. You remember that time you were making pizza at my place and you were so anxious to get back to Halo that you forgot to… no, you shut the fuck up. I’m not the moron that burned his hand on a freaking pizza pan. Just… _bye_.”

 

Alec hangs up with a sharp groan that makes both Magnus and the cashier laugh. And then he is there at Magnus’ side, all tall, broad and surly.

 

“Here,” he says as he turns to Alec and slides the recently purchased sunglasses onto his face.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“I bought them for you,” Magnus replies as Alec takes the sunglasses off and holds them in his hand as if they are made of something so fragile he’s afraid to even touch them.

 

“Why?”

 

Now it is Magnus’ turn to shrug. “Think of them as a thank you gift.”

 

“For what?”

 

“We can figure that part out later.”

 

There’s a small smile on Alec’s lips now, tugging at the corners as his grip on the sunglasses starts to resemble something human. “So they’re a preemptive thank you gift?”

 

“As I am fairly certain that you will do something worthy of a thank you gift at some point in the relatively near future, yes, they are a preemptive gift.”

 

Alec looks at the sunglasses still clutched in his hand before dragging his eyes back to Magnus’ face and saying the softest, “Thank you,” Magnus has ever heard in his entire life.

 

Right in this moment, Magnus has the overwhelming urge to buy Alec every single pair of sunglasses in the store.

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the cashier says a second later. “But can I maybe get a picture with you guys? I’m a _huge_ fan.”

 

“Of course,” Magnus says at the same time that Alec says, “Sure,” and then the girl is calling to someone named Carl in the back to _get his butt_ out there to take the picture for her.

 

She hands Carl her phone once he emerges from the back looking very put out, and then she is moving from behind the counter to settle in between them as they lean down to get closer to her height. Which is obviously a more difficult task for Alec than it is for him.

 

They both reach out at the same time, his right arm and Alec’s left, moving to brace behind their dear-hearted fan. But instead of resting their hands on her shoulders, or just hanging them loosely behind her, they both seem to have the same idea at the same moment. And so Alec’s hand is wrapping around Magnus’ elbow at the same time that Magnus is returning the favor.

 

Once the picture has been taken, Magnus is ready to just let go and move on with his day. And he does, he opens his palm and goes to stand up like this is all just normal. Only instead of doing the same, Alec’s touch lingers, sliding slowly down Magnus’ forearm, resting briefly at his hand, their fingers twisted together lightly for a breath that’s stolen clean from Magnus’ chest before Alec is letting him go and heading for the door.

 

It takes Magnus a moment to follow him, but that’s mostly because the bones in his legs have seemingly turned to some sort of gelatinous substance in the last half-minute.

 

They don’t speak at all on the way back to Alec’s condo, but there is something about the silence that is screaming at Magnus right now. And so his head is actually pounding from it when they finally make it safely inside.

 

“Where the hell did you go?” Jace says as soon as they are through the door.

 

“To buy more rolls,” Alec replies.

 

“Really? Where are they then?”

 

“Uh,” Alec stammers, “They were all out.”

 

“So you bought sunglasses instead?” he asks as he takes the aviators off of where Alec had perched them atop his head once they entered the building.

 

“Fuck off, dick wipe,” Alec says as he retrieves the sunglasses so he can place them gently on a table by the door. And then he is heading back through the dining room at that, presumably to finish preparing his feast.

 

It is a feast, that much is plainly obvious simply by the smell that has overtaken the condo in their absence. So Magnus’ mouth is literally watering as he joins the rest of the team in settling around the oversized table filling up the entire expanse of Alec’s dining room.

 

He made place cards for everyone, which is something that Magnus finds unbearably cute until he notices that Alec has actually placed Magnus kiddie corner to the head of the table where he, Alec, will be sitting. And now Magnus just sort of wants to jump off the balcony.

 

They are friends. Alec is his _friend_. That is that.

 

He spends some time before dinner talking to Lydia across the table, placed at Alec’s left hand while Magnus awaits his right. And it is distressing to him, how charming she is, given the way he cannot seem to control his feelings for her strapping boyfriend. But that’s just the story of his life, he supposes – always wanting the exact thing he cannot have. And he is thinking about how he should just go ahead and write a book on the subject when Alec emerges from the kitchen with the most gorgeous turkey Magnus has ever seen in all his years on this earth.

 

They eat. And Magnus cannot even seem to be disturbed by the noises Raphael is making beside him because the food is even better than he could have imagined.

 

At one point, once he comes down from the high created by the elaborate dishes Alec has prepared, he realizes rather blindingly that their knees are pressed up against one another’s. And he is not positive how long that has been going on, but now that he notices it, he cannot seem to get his mind off of it.

 

He is itching to move, to rub his knee along Alec’s, which is a ridiculous thing to want. But before he can thoroughly chastise himself for being such a remarkable idiot, Alec stretches his right leg out.

 

He knows that it means nothing, that Alec has very long legs and people with very long legs sometimes need to stretch their very long legs out so as not to lose circulation entirely. But he cannot seem to convince himself that his own actions mean nothing when he raises his foot to place it on the other side of Alec’s leg, the _inside_. Because as much as he tries to rationalize that he is just stretching out as well, he knows better.

 

Alec seems to respond to it, though. He’s looking down to his left now, talking with his sister who is sitting just beside his terrifyingly charming girlfriend, but his body is reacting to Magnus’ presence, that much he can tell as he moves his leg slightly so that his foot is hooked around Magnus’ ankle.

 

He uses the leverage to tug in, bending his knee slightly so that Magnus’ leg is essentially wrapped around his, pulling him in so that his stomach is now pressed into the side of the table. And it is awkward and a little painful, given the angle, but he almost has his leg draped over Alec’s thigh and so he cannot seem to find it in himself to care about anything else.

 

There are so many things he wants right now: An empty room, a green light, a sane grasp on the situation before him. But all he has is the slight way Alec’s leg is shaking where it’s still pressed up against his, the light flush of pink crawling up Alec’s neck, just behind his ears, and the way his own heart is pounding so furiously inside his chest that all he can hear is blood rushing in his ears like a flood.

 

His mind slips from him entirely, images rushing in just like his blood. Alec in the locker room, topless and sweaty. Alec in his hotel room, sleep mussed hair and just a pair of boxer briefs. Alec in the dim light of the closet, lips slightly parted, eyes dazed and wanting. And it makes him want to scream, want to drag Alec down the hall to whichever room is the one with the bed and demand an explanation for this. For entwined legs and faint blushing and the way his fingers has twisted around Magnus’ for the span of a breath.

 

Magnus _wants_.

 

But that is all fantasy; it is all firmly in his head, the single place it belongs. Because until Alec says something, makes a move, does _something_ more than flirting vaguely at the edges, Magnus has to operate under the assumption that he is in a relationship with another person. That he is _not interested_. As that is simply how this works.

 

Alec is his captain. He is his teammate. His linemate. And hopefully his _friend_. But until Magnus gets some sort of verbal confirmation, that is as far as it goes and he knows it. And so he will wait, will stuff his mouth full of comfort food and bite down the words that want to spill out of him and _wait_ because despite how long he _hasn’t_ known him, there is one thing Magnus is absolutely certain of.

 

Alexander Lightwood is the type of person that is well worth the wait.


	7. Chapter 7

Alec detests Las Vegas. It’s like someone took everything he hates about people and the world, stuck it in a blender and turned it into a city. But his team loves the place, and every year during the circus trip they do a night here, so he sucks it up because that’s his job.

 

_Sucking._

 

It’s pretty much inevitably the worst night of his year, hands down, and so he’s trying to prepare himself for it the best he can. Which currently means a scalding hot shower that serves the dual purpose of relaxing him marginally and working on the muscles that are still a gnarled mess from last night’s game against the Flames.  

 

It was a rough one, but they managed to eke out a win in a shootout, keeping their streak at _haven’t lost a game since Magnus joined the team_. Only thanks to all the hits and blocked shots he took last night he’s pretty sure his body qualifies as one giant bruise.

 

There’s no Alec left. Just a dark rainbow of purples, browns and yellows masquerading as skin.

 

The shower is helping, if only slightly. And since they’ve been put up at one of the nicest hotels in the city, there’s no shortage of hot water to dissolve in. But he’d been dumb enough to order food before he got in, thinking that having it ready around the time he got out would help him in the time management department. Except they said it would only take a half hour and judging by the pruning of his skin, that mark is approaching fast.

 

He’s just wrapping a towel around his waist when there’s a knock on the door. And he’s grateful for that little bit of luck, because his mind is so focused on _eat fast while you still have a chance_ that he probably would’ve answered the door naked if he hadn’t already been toweled up.

 

It’s… not room service. It’s Magnus, which means he’s _doubly_ grateful that he didn’t answer the door in the freaking buff. But judging by the way Magnus is looking at him right now, this isn’t much better.

 

“Huh,” Magnus puffs out as he trails his eyes down and up Alec’s still-kind-of-dripping-wet body.

 

He crosses his arms over his stomach in his standard off ice defensive pose. “What?”

 

Magnus blinks up from where he’d been staring at Alec’s chest, probably tracing the bruises making an abstract painting there. “Nothing, I’m just trying to remember the last time you opened a door fully clothed.”

 

“Ha, ha,” he says as he rolls his eyes and walks away from the door, assuming Magnus will sense the invitation and follow him in. “That’s real funny. I thought you were room service.”

 

The door closes with a soft click behind him, but Magnus took the gesture how it was intended and so he’s safely on the inside when that happens.

 

“You have a funny way of greeting service professionals, Alexander.”

 

“Huh?” he bites out as he turns around to face Magnus again. “No, I just… I didn’t want them to leave it in the hall.”

 

“I’m pretty sure they just bring it into your room if you don’t answer.”

 

Alec pauses for a second to mull that over before realizing that Magnus is one hundred percent correct.

 

“Right. But still. It’s nice to open the door for them. Polite or whatever.”

 

When Magnus smiles at him, Alec is struck with the sudden realization that he really, _really_ needs to put on some freaking clothes. So he does, slipping into the bedroom but leaving the door open halfway so that if Magnus wants to continue the conversation, Alec can hear it.

 

“Getting ready to go out?” Magnus calls a second later.

 

“No. I just thought I’d get a shower and some chow in before my night went to shit.”

 

“Why would it do that?”

 

Alec zips his jeans and ducks quickly into a t-shirt before heading back into the living room, dragging the tee over his stomach in the process.

 

“Because I’m on Idiot Call tonight.”

 

“And what exactly is Idiot Call?”

 

“It’s like being a doctor, only I’m not saving lives so much as I’m saving my moronic teammates from getting arrested.”

 

That’s another reason why he hates Vegas. Because, given that his teammates are all a bunch of dipshit kids in their early twenties, their versions of fun often lead to irate calls from business owners or the occasional police officer. And since he’s the captain and reigning Only Adult on the team, those calls always come directly to him.  

 

“I thought you’d be out with everyone,” Alec continues to cover up the bitterness he’s feeling at the general state of his life and the world. “This seems like your kind of place.”

 

Magnus quirks his head at that, leading Alec to stutter out an additional, “I mean because you’re fun. You’re a fun person. And fun people like going out and doing fun things. And Vegas is supposed to be fun, is all I meant.”

 

“And you’re not?” Magnus asks, his head still tilted but his eyes looking a little more thoughtful now.

 

“I’m not what?”

 

“Fun?”

 

Alec laughs. “According to my teammates? I’m pretty sure if you took a poll, I’d be voted the least fun person in existence.”

 

Magnus smiles again at that, but it’s only there for a split second this time before his expression falls to something uncharacteristically neutral.

 

“This will obviously come as no surprise to you, Alec, but I have been here a time or two. Let’s just say the glamour wears off quickly. It’s why I came here tonight, actually.”

 

“To find glamour?”

 

Alec can’t help the way his entire face scrunches up at that. Because if there’s one word that has never been applied to him in his life, it’s any form of the word _glamour._

 

“No,” Magnus replies with a light laugh that seems shy almost. Which is another uncharacteristic thing with him, and one that is only accentuated by the way he’s sort of twisting his fingers together, darting his eyes away so he’s looking anywhere but at Alec when he adds, “I came to see if you wanted to see a show or something.”

 

“Oh.” The word is little more than a puff of air that doubles back on him, swelling in his chest so that he can hardly breathe through it when he adds, “Yeah. I mean, I _would_ , but…”

 

“Idiot Call?”

 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, and he means it. He’s pretty sure that nothing in the entire world would be able to make him actually _like_ Vegas, but seeing a show with Magnus sounds infinitely more tolerable than what he’s got on tap for the evening.

 

Why do his teammates have to be such assholes?

 

Alec assumes that’s the end of this. That Magnus is going to take his leave, go off and find someone else to spend the night with, someone less _parental._ Which is why it’s a surprise when he looks up finally, directly at Alec and says, “I could stay here with you if you’d like. Help you out.”

 

“You want to spend the night rescuing drunken morons?” he asks, his voice pinched around the skepticism he’s feeling right now because even _he_ doesn’t want to spend his night doing that, and he’s got no other choice.

 

“With you?” Magnus asks in this voice that’s so… like… _bare_ that it makes something funny lurch in Alec’s stomach. “Yeah. It sounds fun.”

 

“You’ve got an interesting definition of that word.”

 

That’s not what Alec wants to say. But any of the things he wants to say are the types of words that are going to get him in trouble and he knows it. The types of thoughts that always end up in, like, this almost irresistible urge to just touch Magnus. Not even in any sexual way or anything just… _touch_. But he turns it into a joke because jokes are safer.

 

“If you don’t want me to,” Magnus starts to say as he turns away from Alec. But before he can finish his sentence or even take one step towards the door, Alec is lunging towards him.

 

He grabs Magnus’ wrist, links his fingers directly over his pulse so that he can feel it running faintly in his grip when he says, “No, I want you. To stay, I mean. I want you to stay.”

 

Why is he like this?

 

Magnus turns back to him, his eyes lingering for a few seconds on where Alec is still holding his wrist before they trail up Alec’s arm, his chest, all the way to his face. And the look in Magnus’ eyes makes Alec pull his hand back like he just realized he was touching fire.

 

Breathe. All he has to do is freaking _breathe_.

 

He agrees to stay, and while Alec heads off in search of socks and boots, Magnus spends a few minutes giving himself a tour of Alec’s room – an elaborate suite that even he has to admit is pretty damn impressive, gifted to him every year in payment for all the work he puts in on this night. And then it’s just them, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, hockey playing quietly on the television while they share the extravagant spread Alec ordered from room service that finally arrived because Alec is not above spending the team’s money when he’s feeling bitchy and put out.

 

It’s not like his parents have a cash shortage or anything like that.

 

“I think your Thanksgiving feast has ruined me for all other food,” Magnus says at one point as he begins dipping into the dessert quarter of the cart.

 

Alec shrugs. “It wasn’t _that_ good.”

 

The look of abject shock Magnus gives him seems to imply otherwise.

 

“Are you kidding? It was positively orgasmic, Alec. In fact, I’m pretty sure Raphael made that claim a reality. Thank you for sitting me next to him, by the way.”

 

Alec smiles, but it’s the kind of expression that makes his cheeks warm and so he tries to stifle it as quickly as he can.

 

“Honestly, it makes me wonder what other hidden talents you have,” Magnus adds.

 

For some reason, the words, “I can play the ukulele,” spill out of Alec’s mouth.

 

“Really?”

 

“No. Not really.”

 

The smile is back, and so is the damn cheek warmth, which means he’s freaking _blushing,_ and Alec hates blushing. What he doesn’t hate, though, is the way Magnus reaches down the couch and shoves him, laughing through the gesture, even though it makes the burn work all the way down the back of his neck.

 

What in the actual fuck was he thinking, letting Magnus stick around tonight?

 

He gets his first call a few minutes later, which means a few minutes after _that_ he and Magnus are downstairs hopping into a cab on their way to the Bellagio where a _rogue Blackhawk_ decided to take an illegal swim in the fountains.

 

They didn’t tell him who it was, which means it’s not Jace because every hotel security guard in this city knows Jace by face, name and social security number. And he’d like to say that he’s surprised when they’re dropped off at the curb and he sees Raj doing the backstroke in the fountain, but given what Raj pulled last year, Alec feels absolutely zero sense of shock here.

 

Raj has a sort of _thing_ for him, emphasized by the drunken pass he made at Alec last Vegas trip. And he’s not usually one to think of himself as desirable or whatever, but he knows a cry for attention when he sees one.

 

“Can you,” he says to Magnus as he hands him his phone and motions at the people standing around taking pictures in serious need of corralling. And with a tight nod, Magnus heads off to be the best wingman in the history of Idiot Call while Alec steps cautiously into the fountain to retrieve his first drunken fish of the night.

 

“C’mon, buddy, it’s time to dry off,” he says soothingly as he wraps Raj’s arm over his shoulder so he can walk him toward the edge.

 

“Alec, my _hero_ ,” Raj replies directly into the crook of Alec’s neck, his breath so heavy with the scent of scotch Alec feels like he’s about to get contact drunk. Any inebriated joy Raj might have been feeling upon being rescued by Alec, though, evaporates the second he’s stuffed into their cab.

 

“Whas’he doin here?” he asks, the words directed at Alec even though his glare is very much locked on Magnus.

 

“He’s my partner tonight,” Alec replies blandly before asking the driver to take them back to their hotel.

 

Raj turns to him now, the glare still thick in his eyes. “Y’always tell me you don’wan company.”

 

He hiccups at the end of his accusation, which takes some of the fire out of it. But Alec doesn’t really know how to respond to any of that so he just wraps his arm over Raj’s shoulder, lets him burrow into his side for a minute and hopes that’ll shut him up. Besides, judging by the smell of him, he’s so drunk that the chances of him remembering this are slim to _snowball in hell._

Magnus is looking at him kind of oddly, which is probably not all that unexpected. But Alec is soaking wet and exhausted already, so he just tips his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes until they’re safely back at the hotel.

 

“It has become painfully obvious that I am going to need to be far less sober for this evening,” Magnus proclaims once they’re Raj-free and back in his suite. But all Alec wants to do is put on some dry clothes, which is exactly what he does as Magnus says an excited, “Your mini bar is an _actual bar_!” from the next room.

 

“Drink break?” he asks once Alec emerges, holding two crystal drinking glasses aloft as an offering. But given that he remembers clearly what almost happened the last time he was drunk around Magnus, Alec takes a hard pass.

 

He needs to be focused tonight. Needs to be focused _forever_. And Magnus is a dangerous enough cocktail as is, without Alec adding in any _actual_ cocktails to the mix.

 

There’s a slight pout on Magnus’ lips as he puts down the glasses and picks up a bottle of something that looks very expensive instead, his voice the fake singsong one Alec’s heard him use a few times when he says, “More for me then,” and takes a deep swig before heading over to the couch.

 

They’d left the TV on when they headed out on their first call, but even though Alec doesn’t turn it off, he does mute it. Because…

 

Well, he doesn’t really know the because right now. It just feels like the right thing to do.

 

“So what’s the worst one you’ve ever had to do?” Magnus asks as he settles into his corner of the couch, cradling the bottle of liquor like a beloved pet.

 

“Last year I had to break up a wedding,” Alec replies before he can think to, you know, _not be an imbecile and tell Magnus about that one_.

 

Magnus chokes on the swig he was in the middle of while Alec silently berates himself for opening his mouth. But the damage has already been done judging by the way Magnus sits up straighter as soon as he’s finished coughing the liquid out of his lungs.

 

The way he adjusts his posture brings him a few inches closer to Alec on the couch, but Alec’s just going to chalk that up to coincidence.

 

“Oh, now you _have_ to tell me that story,” Magnus says as he drapes the arm holding the bottle along the top of the couch.

 

There’s something about the heat in Magnus’ eyes, the spark ignited by the hint of juicy gossip, that makes Alec reach out for the bottle in spite of his previous resistance to all things inhibition reducing.

 

His fingers linger over where Magnus’ are clutched around the neck of the bottle, his eyes locked on where they’re touching before he slips the bottle out of Magnus’ grip and raises it to his lips.

 

Magnus swallows hard when Alec tips the bottle back to take a swig, Alec’s eyes trailing the way Magnus’ Adam’s apple bobs with the response. And the warmth that presses through Alec’s veins has nothing to do with the whiskey sliding smoothly down the back of his throat and he knows it.

 

“My lips are sealed,” he says in response to Magnus’ request to hear about his wedding crash from last year as he passes the bottle back to Magnus. And he’s doing that thing again, the thing he did at the party the other night where he lowers his voice, lets it come from some place deeper like he’s trying to make an impression even though he’s not.

 

Even though he _shouldn’t._

 

Magnus moves closer to him, his voice lowering as well like there’s some sort of call and response going on here when he says, “Alexander Lightwood, you better tell me right now or there will be consequences.” 

 

Alec shivers, visibly even, based on the way Magnus’ eyes go sort of dark when he does it. But his own voice is still liquid heat when he says, “Mama Lightwood is like Fort Knox. It’s going to take a lot more than a pretty face to crack me open.”

 

What. In the fuck. Did he just say?

 

Magnus is about to say something else, is moving closer in preparation for it, when Alec’s phone buzzes shrilly from where Magnus dropped it on the coffee table. And he wishes he could say he’s disappointed that the moment, whatever it was, is effectively shattered. But he knows it’s for the best in the end anyway.

 

Mama Lightwood’s work is never done.

 

It’s Simon and Raphael this time, which is yet another unsurprising occurrence. For two people that seem so freaking enamored with each other, they sure fight a lot. Like, _a lot_. Which means Vegas and booze is like the perfect storm for them.

 

They’re in the security office of Caesars, still bitching at one another as Alec and Magnus are lead back to retrieve them. And the vicious way they seem to be at each other's throats makes him wonder what the hell got them so riled up this time. As soon as he’s able to hear what they’re saying, though, he almost wishes he didn’t.

 

“I don’t give a shit about the Force!” Raphael practically spits in Simon’s face. “You put a herd of zombies up against _anyone_ and they’re going to get their brains eaten out sure as fuck.”

 

Both Alec and Magnus look at one another at the same exact time, their faces mirror images of _what the fuck is wrong with these people_ as Alec attempts to stifle a groan.

 

“They wouldn’t even be able to get close to a Jedi!” Simon shrieks. “He’d be able to wipe them out before they got within a hundred yards of him.”

 

“A herd, Simon. A _herd_. One Jedi doesn’t have enough Force power or what the fuck ever to hold back that kind of an onslaught.”

 

“Okay, time to settle down,” Alec says as he moves to step between them.

 

But Raphael just pushes him back, hissing out an aggravated, “We’re not finished here,” as Alec almost falls over completely thanks to the desk chair Raphael just shoved him into.

 

“Don’t push him!” Simon yells, shoving Raphael.

 

“Don’t push _me_!” Raphael shouts back. And then they’re essentially wrestling on the floor because Alec’s life sucks.

 

Magnus helps him break up the fight with minimal damage done. Simon seems to have a split lip, Raphael’s left eye isn’t quite opening as wide as it should, and Alec’s already sore back is screaming at him in aggravation. But all in all Alec takes that as a win as they flag down a second cab so they don’t have to break up any more fights between here and the hotel.

 

“He just doesn’t respect the Force,” Simon moans as he rests his face against the window of the taxi.

 

“It’s okay, buddy. You and I know how awesome it is,” Alec soothes even though he’s never been the biggest Star Wars fan. His words seem to perk Simon up a little bit, though, which is good on the one hand, because at least Simon isn’t moping anymore. But bad on the other hand because Alec has to spend the twenty-minute ride back to their hotel hearing about all the reasons why being a Jedi is the best gig on the planet. Or in outer space or whatever.

 

At some point in the scuffle, someone – aka _he knows it was Raphael the fucking asshole –_ tore Alec’s shirt. And it’s just a plain black tee, of which he has about a thousand, but he’s still aggravated as he pulls it over his head once he and Magnus are back in the suite.

 

“What happened this time?” Magnus asks. But instead of responding with words Alec just tosses the shirt over his shoulder in the general vicinity of Magnus’ voice before heading back to his room to grab another.

 

“At least this time I only had to change my shirt, right?” he calls from the bedroom as he emerges with one arm stuck in a near identical one.

 

Magnus stares at him as he works his other arm into the shirt before raising an eyebrow and asking, “Exactly how many of those do you own?”

 

Alec shrugs. “I stopped counting after the first hundred.”

 

It’s a joke. But it’s also sort of _not_ a joke.

 

Alec turns the TV off entirely this time as he collapses into his corner of the couch, stretching his legs out along the length of it because he’s too tired to be polite. Magnus doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he curls into his corner, pulling one knee up to his chest and stretching his other leg in between Alec’s.

 

“I thought you were a saint before, just dealing with normal team stuff and your parents,” Magnus says almost somberly. “But this? This is above and beyond. Do you really do this every year?”

 

“Yep,” Alec says as he tips his head to the side so that it’s resting on the top of the couch. “But the rest of that isn’t as bad as it seems.”

 

“I don’t know; your mother is pretty terrifying.”

 

“You noticed that, huh?” Alec asks with a slight laugh that turns immediately to ash in his throat when he adds, “But that’s how all parents are, right?”

 

“Um, no Alec, I do not think that’s strictly the norm.”

 

“Don’t tell me,” he says as lightly as he can as he raises his head to look at Magnus. “You were raised in the Brady Bunch house, am I right?”

 

“Actually, I was raised by my grandparents.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Alec’s chest starts to do that funny tightening thing again, this time in response to the look on Magnus’ face. It’s not sorrow, not necessarily, but it’s something similar. And Alec has never really seen Magnus look like that before, which is why he’s basically just shutting his mouth and holding his breath right now.

 

He clearly stepped into something personal, something that Magnus probably doesn’t even want to talk about. The last thing he wants to do is pry, so he doesn’t. Only a second later Magnus is just spilling in a way that’s both surprising and a little chilling to Alec.

 

“When I was ten, my mother swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills,” he says, his voice so level, so cold it makes every muscle in Alec’s body tighten. “She usually picked me up at the bus, but that day…”

 

He pauses, casting his eyes down to where Alec’s foot is resting against the inside of his thigh before raising an eyebrow in a different way this time and saying, “My stepfather blamed me. I wasn’t exactly the easiest child to deal with when I was young, and he thought that I pushed her too much. Too far. And so one night he got ragingly drunk and tried to beat me to death.”

 

Alec stopped breathing somewhere around the word _blamed_ , his heart pounding painfully in his chest as Magnus’ face is swallowed in some sort of dark cloud while he reaches out absently and wraps his hands around Alec’s foot.

 

“I survived, though,” he says with this fake smile that makes Alec’s fists hurt from how hard he’s clenching them.

 

But Magnus just lets go of his foot, leaning back into the corner of the couch before smiling wider and saying, “And I got to be raised by my mother’s parents, who are the two most delightful people in the entire world. So it wasn’t all that bad in the end, I suppose.”

 

“Magnus, fuck, I’m so,” Alec starts to say, but Magnus is holding up his hand and waving him off before he can get the word _sorry_ out of his mouth.

 

“It really isn’t as tragic as it sounds, though it is funny.”

 

“What is?” Alec asks as he tries to get his insides to stop shaking.

 

“I’ve never told anyone else that, other than Cat.”

 

“She was your date, right? The one from the ball?”

 

Magnus sighs, his eyes going slightly glassy when he says, “Yes. My best friend.” Laughing lightly before adding, “And my conscience.”

 

“She was beautiful,” Alec says as something heavy settles in his gut.

 

But Magnus snaps out the words, “And like a sister to me,” before the pit can expand too far.

 

The silence thickens around them like a physical presence as they just stare at each other, Alec’s foot heavy like lead where it’s still pressed against the inside of Magnus’ thigh. And he wants to say something, maybe even wants to _do something_ , but any forward progress is halted when his phone rings for the third time tonight.

 

It’s Jace’s number that pops up this time, which is why his voice is softer when he says, “What’s up buddy?”

 

“Um, is this… is this Alec Lightwood?” an unfamiliar voice asks from the other end of the line.

 

And the only thing Alec can say in response is, “Where is he?”

 

Alec’s never been a huge fan of strip clubs, especially the lady variety, which is why his skin is sort of crawling as he and Magnus head into the Diamond Cabaret in search of Jace. But more than anything, the crawling this time probably has to do with wondering what the hell Jace did in a place like this to warrant a call to his parents.

  
Not that Alec and Magnus are his parents.

 

The place is packed, the music so loud and bass-filled that Alec can feel it wrapping around his heart, making his blood thicken. And he’s so relieved at the dampening of the music when the manager finds them and takes them into the back that he almost doesn’t notice all the mostly naked people surrounding him.

 

“What did he do?” Alec finally asks once it’s quiet enough to hear a response. “He wasn’t, like, bothering the dancers or anything, was he?”

 

Alec can’t imagine Jace doing anything like that, but he also can’t imagine what else might’ve gotten Jace into trouble here.

 

“No, it’s nothing like that,” the manager says. “He was here with some of your other teammates, but when they left… Mr. Wayland, um, insisted on dancing.”

 

Magnus snorts, but Alec is still a little too confused to know which way he wants to go with his emotions.

 

“What do you mean he _insisted on dancing_?”

 

The manager stops walking so he can look Alec directly in the eye when he says, “He kept trying to get up onto the stage to perform. Not with any of the girls, just by himself. Kept calling himself Magic Jace and yelling for the DJ to play ‘Sexy Back.’”

 

Magnus is legitimately cracking up now, so badly that he has to reach out for the wall to hold himself upright. But Alec is doing his best to hold that particular response in as he bites down a smile and says, “I’m sorry. He gets a little… weird when he’s drunk.”

 

“Clearly,” the manager says before adding, “He’s back here.”

 

They’re lead into the dressing room where they find Jace surrounded by a gaggle of doting women in G-strings. And when the women finally part enough for him to get a good look at Jace, the laughter he’d been holding in finally bursts forth.

 

He’s covered in glitter. Like, literally _covered_ in it. And he’s got this pink feather boa wrapped around his neck that makes him look like a kid playing dress up. And Alec…

 

This night is just too much to do anything but laugh his ass off at this point.

 

“Alec!” Jace shouts as soon as he sees him, getting to his feet immediately so that he can run into Alec’s arms.

 

And it sort of sounds like he’s sobbing into Alec’s third shirt of the night, which prompts him to ask, “Were you drinking tequila tonight?” Because without fail, tequila turns Jace into the saddest drunk to ever drink.

 

“No,” Jace very clearly lies. But when Alec reaches down to pull him off, hold his face up to the fluorescent light of the dressing room, Jace groans a pathetic, “Yes,” that makes Alec want to start laughing again as he wonders for the millionth time what stupid twist of fate bound him to Jace Wayland for all of freaking eternity.

 

“C’mon, let’s get you home,” Alec says as he wraps his arm over Jace’s shoulder. But Jace locks himself in place the second Alec takes a step to leave.

 

“What?” Alec asks after tugging on Jace a few unsuccessful times.

 

“I want panda.”

 

Seriously, why is this his life?

 

“I’m not panda-ing you, Jace,” Alec says very, _very_ firmly as he crosses his arms over his chest and glares down at him.

 

“And I’m not leaving without it,” Jace replies just as stubbornly as he mirrors Alec’s pose.

 

“Um, what exactly is panda-ing?” Magnus asks from where he’s been silently giggling for the past few minutes.

 

“It’s stupid, that’s what it is,” Alec responds, his eyes still locked on Jace. “I’ve had a long night, Jace, so you can just… _forget it_.”

 

Jace takes a step toward him, jutting his chin out and rising onto his toes so that his face is only inches from Alec’s. “I am not moving unless you panda me.”

 

In a conclusion to the standoff that would surprise no one that actually knows him, Alec caves, if only because he wants to get the hell out of here and he knows how pointless it is to argue with Jace when he’s full up on tequila. So he bites out the words, “Fine, you win asshole,” and reaches down to grab Jace under his arms, hefting him up so that Jace’s legs are wrapped around his waist while Jace’s arms settle around his shoulders.

 

He can’t believe he has to walk out of a strip club in Las Vegas with his best friend clinging to his chest like a fucking panda. Or, well, he _can_ believe it, he guesses, but he really, _really_ hates it.

 

Thankfully Jace agrees to actually sit on the bench of the taxi. Alec was half worried he was going to want to stay in his lap the whole way back to the hotel. But his luck runs out when Jace insists that the panda trip continue into the hotel itself, and it gets even _worse_ when Jace asks to go back to Alec’s room instead of his own.  


“You’re not sleeping in my bed,” he groans as he leans against the back of the elevator that is thankfully empty of everyone but the three of them.

 

Jace is still wrapped around him and his back is screaming like it’s on fire, and so he draws the line on giving up his bed for the night so Jace can be _Jace_.

 

“But your bed is so much softer,” he moans into Alec’s shoulder. “And Simon snores. _Please_.”

 

The _please_ is drawn out to about ten syllables, by the ninth of which Alec has already caved.

 

“Was this just your ploy to get to sleep in the suite?” Alec asks as Magnus picks up on his totally spineless clues and hits the button for Alec’s floor.

 

“Yup,” Jace replies with far too much glee, and Alec…

 

He is so fucking tired.

 

He carries Jace all the way to his bed before dumping him onto the mattress unceremoniously. And he’s just about to walk out of the room, presumably free, when Jace reaches out and drags him down the bed.

 

Tequila does two things to Jace: It makes him sad, and it makes him want to cuddle.

 

“I miss Clary,” Jace moans as he wraps himself back around Alec’s body while Alec tries to at least save some of his dignity by getting into a sitting position. Because Magnus is still here, has been silently watching every second of his and Jace’s little display ever since they left the club. And Alec would very much like it if Magnus didn’t think he was a complete ass by the end of this evening.

 

Partial ass he can handle, but _complete_?

 

“I know, buddy,” Alec soothes as he finally gets his back flat against the headboard. And he’s almost afraid to look at Magnus right now but he does it anyway if only for curiosity’s sake.

 

He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, backlit by the single lamp they’d left on in the other room and he looks…

 

There’s actually no good way for Alec to describe how he looks, his already sharp features accentuated by shadows, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stares at where Alec is sitting in bed. And for not the first time in Alec’s life he wishes he had the power to make Jace disappear.

 

Not forever. Just, you know, until he can figure out what exactly that look is on Magnus’ face.

 

“If I would’ve known you were giving out free cuddles tonight, I would’ve gone out and gotten shit faced, too,” Magnus says once Alec has been staring at him for a good thirty seconds at least.

 

“I am not shit faced,” Jace protests.

 

Magnus just laughs, darkly almost before replying, “I don’t know, Wayland, your face looks pretty shitty to me.”

 

“They’re not free,” Alec butts in. “In fact.”

 

He reaches into his pocket so he can pull out his cell, holding it up to take a selfie of a glitter-coated Jace, clinging to his lap.

 

“He’ll be cleaning my apartment for weeks for this.”

 

Magnus smiles from the shadows, the arms he’d had wrapped around his stomach loosening now so he can slip his hands into his pockets when he asks, “What would you charge me?”

 

Alec swallows. Or at least he tries to, anyway. His throat is a little too dry right now to get much going there as he replies, “You’d get a considerable discount.”

 

He both hates that Jace is here and is really very incredibly glad that Jace is here, because if he wasn’t…

 

_If he wasn’t._

 

Magnus evidently got the answer he was looking for because a second later he’s leaving the doorway. And for all Alec knows he went back to his room. He wouldn’t blame him, wouldn’t hold it against him for a second if he just wanted to bail entirely on the rest of this evening, whatever might be left of it. Which is why he’s surprised when, about a half hour later, he emerges from his room and sees Magnus sitting in what’s become his corner of the couch.

 

“Is he finally asleep?” Magnus asks once he notices Alec’s presence.

 

“Um, yeah, he finally passed out. I thought… I figured you would’ve gone home by now.”

 

“Did you want me to?” Magnus asks as he goes to stand up, but Alec puts his hands out immediately before Magnus can get more than a few inches off the couch.

 

“No, I didn’t. I just… I figured you would, is all.”

 

He wants to ask why he’s still here, why he stuck around at all tonight. But he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to hear the answers to those particular questions, and so he just lets them sit for the time being.

 

“You look pretty rough,” Magnus says with mild concern as Alec collapses onto the couch so tired that his head actually bounces off the arm of it once he’s down.

 

“It’s been a rough few days,” he groans, shifting his hips in the hopes of discovering a position that doesn’t make him feel like his entire body is on fire.

 

“You took a beating last night,” Magnus recaps.

 

“And carrying Jace’s drunk ass around the city didn’t help any.”

 

Magnus laughs lightly. “And I wouldn’t imagine wrestling on the floor with Raphael and Simon did either.”

 

“Or dragging a sopping wet Raj out of the Bellagio fountains,” Alec counters with a laugh of his own. And he still feels like his body is staging some sort of all-out revolt against him, Mutiny On the Freaking Bounty style, but somehow this is… nice.

 

Magnus always seems to make things _nice_.

 

“Sit up,” Magnus says next.

 

And Alec was sort of almost half asleep already, so he can’t help how lost he sounds when he asks, “Huh?”

 

Magnus is moving down the couch towards him, cracking his knuckles as he says, “Sit up. Let me rub your back.”

 

And that…

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Alec says through the tightness in his _everything_. But Magnus just shakes his head a few times like Alec is making this a bigger deal than it is.

 

“It’s fine. I’m actually quite good at this. I dated a masseuse for a year; she taught me all the tricks of the trade. And I am, as they say, a quick study.”

 

Alec’s mind is still resisting, but Alec’s body is already starting to rise to a sitting position as he asks, “Was that before or after Camille?”

 

“Oh, _long_ before. It was when I was eighteen, doing a year of college hockey in North Dakota. Let me tell you, there is not much to do in North Dakota outside of masseuses.”

 

Magnus kind of bucks at his own words, like maybe there was something in them he wishes he hadn’t said. But he’s shaking it off a second later as he literally shoves Alec’s legs off the couch to get him to a full sitting position.

 

“Just… move forward,” he says, waiting this time for Alec to make the decision instead of maneuvering him himself. “I promise you won’t regret it. I’ve been told on multiple occasions that I possess magic fingers.”

 

Magnus is so close right now, and the words _magic fingers_ are sort of swirling wildly in Alec’s head. So he does exactly as Magnus asks because apparently tonight, he’s on autopilot.

 

Magnus bends his left leg so he can squeeze in behind Alec, leaving his right leg resting along Alec’s side. And it’s strange, the way it feels to have Magnus sort of wrapped around him like this. But it’s also, like, incredibly freaking comfortable. Which is something he might find weird if his mind didn’t shut off entirely the second Magnus starts touching him.

 

Alec has been to dozens of chiropractors over the course of his life, masseuses, trainers, you name it. But his muscles have never felt better than at this very moment as Magnus’ fingers dig into them like he’s some sort of divining rod.

 

He’s groaning almost immediately, coughing out the word, “Fuck,” when Magnus twists his fist into a knot that’s probably the size of a grapefruit beneath Alec’s right shoulder blade. And he has to press his forearms into the tops of his own thighs to keep from melting completely off the couch as he collapses under Magnus’ touch.

 

It feels like Magnus is dismantling him, is pulling apart the pieces of him, spreading them across a table like equipment, ready to be sharpened and taped. And he’s so ridiculously lost in the way he feels like he’s turning to freaking jelly that he almost misses it when Magnus speaks.

 

“Huh?” he asks, not even the slightest bit embarrassed that the question comes out like a moan.

 

“I said that you and Jace certainly have an interesting relationship,” Magnus evidently repeats. “You two are very… close.”

 

“He’s like a brother to me,” Alec bites out quickly, his voice almost desperate for a reason he’s not able to pin down given the way Magnus seems to still be trying to coax him into an out of body experience.

 

“Ah,” Magnus says as he digs his thumbs into the muscles just above the backs of Alec’s hips, pushing them in until they reach his spine before dragging them up in a way that almost makes Alec want to cry actual tears.

 

“His mom died when he was real young,” Alec explains because oddly he feels the need to. “And his dad… he’s a nice guy and all, but he worked a lot, and wasn’t really _there_ even when he was, you know?”

 

Magnus _hmmms_ as he begins pressing his fingers individually into the muscles along Alec’s sides like he’s playing the piano.

 

“Jace spent a lot of time at our house when we were young, so, you know, _brothers_.”

 

“That is surprisingly kind of your parents,” Magnus says, and his voice, it’s different now. Heavier than it was before, warm and deep in a way that makes Alec push up slightly from where he’s been bent over this whole time like something in him just wants to get _closer_.

 

“It wasn’t entirely altruistic,” he says as he rolls his head, prompting Magnus to move his fingers to Alec’s neck in a way that feels like literal heaven. “Jace was the best ranked skater in our class. I think they were just trying to hedge their bets, in case I flamed out.”

 

Alec can feel Magnus’ laugh pulse through his entire body, radiating out from his fingertips when he says, “Ah, there is it. The ulterior motive. All is right with the world once more.”

 

He’s got his fingers in Alec’s hair right now, massaging his scalp. And Alec knows it doesn’t mean anything. Or at least he _thinks_ it doesn’t. And it’s not like he’s never felt anyone rubbing his freaking head before, professionally or non. But somehow in the middle of all of that Alec winds up with his hand on Magnus’ thigh, and for the life of him, he can’t figure out how the hell it got there.

 

He stares down at it once he notices what he’s doing, but instead of pulling his hand back like a sane person, he starts, like, _moving_ it. Twisting his arm so that he can run his thumb along the inner seam of Magnus’ pants as he drags his hand back and forth, back and forth over the roughly six inches of real estate he can reach from this angle.

 

It takes him a minute to realize that Magnus has stopped what he’s doing, has stopped _breathing_ , from the sound and feel of it. And everything in Alec’s head is screaming at him right now, telling him to _back off_. And yet he still finds himself hooking his thumb under the bottom of Magnus’ thigh and squeezing.

 

“ _Alec_ ,” Magnus hisses when he does that, the word raw as he drops his hands to Alec’s hips and presses his head between Alec’s shoulder blades. And Alec has only had one sip of alcohol all night but he feels so drunk right now he can’t even see straight, let alone think that way.

 

Which is probably why he starts turning, his body moving slowly of its own freaking volition as he twists back to the right, _into_ Magnus. His eyes shut and his head tipped down as Magnus sort of folds in around him until he’s tucked into the corner of the couch with Magnus straddling his thighs.

 

Magnus is in his lap. Magnus is in his fucking _lap_. And Alec…

 

Well, Alec is pretty much fucking panicking.

 

He can feel his own hands skating up the tops of Magnus’ thighs, pushing up under Magnus’ shirt until he finds skin, warm and waiting. And Alec is just so freaking lost right now that the only thing he can think to do is let his head drop further until it’s resting on Magnus’ chest.

 

His shirt is so soft. Like, it’s cotton, colorful and patterned and perfect but it’s not like any cotton Alec has ever owned. It’s so freaking _soft_ against his skin as Magnus’ fingers return to his hair only this time his touch is gentler.

 

He can’t look at him. Alec knows beyond any shadow of doubt that if he looks at Magnus right now, he’s done. And so he keeps his eyes shut when Magnus reaches down to cup his face, lifting his head up so that he can press his lips softly to the center of Alec’s forehead.

 

He removes his hands from Magnus’ hips just long enough to place them on the couch, gain some leverage to pull himself up, straighten his position. But the way Magnus’ body rolls in his lap makes stars flash behind his shut tight eyelids as Magnus lets out a moan so deep it feels like it’s rattling _Alec’s_ bones.

 

With the better angle, Magnus starts making his way down Alec’s face, his lips pressed to his temple, his cheekbone, his teeth scraping up Alec’s jaw before he pulls Alec’s earlobe gently between his lips. And all the while his fingers are still there, holding Alec’s head still like he knows instinctively that Alec doesn’t have the strength to hold it up right now.

 

There’s a weight on his shoulders, heavy like Atlas, and it feels like it’s crushing him as Magnus begins tracing an imaginary design into his neck, his tongue flicking out before he sucks lightly on each patch burning a path down his skin.

 

He’s offering. Alec’s got no idea why, but that’s what this is. _An offer_. And he wants to take it. So bad, he wants to _take it_. And he could. Could lift him up, press him back into the couch and kiss him until it hurts, but then what?

 

Then what?

 

If he kisses him now, he won’t be able to stop. Alec can feel it, pushing inside of him, aching to get out. All or nothing, that’s how Alec _lives._ But there’s no room in his life for that. For that _risk._ Because once he starts, he won’t stop. He’ll want and want and _want,_ and that could be the end of him because eventually Magnus won’t, won’t want, and Alec _will_ and that’ll fucking ruin him. 

 

Back when he was in the minors, he broke his leg. And he remembers lying on the ice that day, tears streaming down his face because he thought it was over. Thought he’d lost it. And he can’t do that again. He’s already got one thing in his life he’d die without, so he doesn’t need to go out searching for another. 

 

Besides, both Magnus and Jace have been on point streaks since the trade. Alec is playing the best hockey of his life. The entire team is energized. There’s life there. A strong, beating heart. Every practice is full of so much promise, every game one step closer to thirty-five pounds of silver and nickel, raised in his arms. He can feel all of that _coming,_ and so it’s selfish of him to want anything that might disturb it, disrupt the balance they’ve all worked so hard to find. 

 

How the hell could he possibly risk all that on an unknown? On someone who’ll probably get sick of him in a day just like everyone else. Who’ll wake up tomorrow, look at Alec lying next to him and see only a mistake.

 

Everyone expects better from him, expects _more_. The respectability of this team is on _his_ shoulders. He has an obligation to his teammates, to his family, to his  _city_  to uphold a certain sense of order and decorum. And there’s just… there’s too fucking much _at stake_ to allow himself to be pushed off the path. Not here. Not now.

 

So he’s shaking, his words and his mother’s words and so many _words_ morphing into a loud, unintelligible shriek between his ears as he squeezes his hands around Magnus’ hips like he’s holding onto the edge of a cliff and he wants… Alec _wants so much right now_. Has never wanted anyone like this before, _this much_. Not like this. Because sex has always just been another need to be filled with him, another regimented part of his life like paying his freaking mortgage. But this? This is different.

 

This is every inch of his body responding to Magnus’ touch. This is his blood, boiling in his veins, his bones aching to break through skin. It’s not just want, it’s _need_ , like the way he feels when he’s been away from the ice for too long. Like an unscratchable itch. And Alec…

 

He’s breaking.

 

_Shattering._

 

When Magnus’ teeth sink into his collarbone, Alec actually sobs, his fingers gripping so tightly into Magnus he knows he’s going to leave marks but he’s spiraling. Everything inside of him is freaking _spiraling_ like a freaking whirlpool and he can’t even seem to catch his breath.

 

Magnus returns to his face a second later, but that’s different this time too. It’s gentler, _so much gentler_ as he cups Alec’s face and drags his nose along his cheekbone, nudging him, _nuzzling_ before he brushes his lips over Alec’s in the ghost of a touch.

 

“ _Alec_ ,” he says again, his name like a plea here, like he’s begging Alec to come this last little bit as he presses a kiss to the corner of Alec’s lips. Like even though he covered the majority of the distance, Magnus won’t come all the way, won’t _take_ that last little bit, not until Alec gives it but he can’t.

 

_He can’t._

 

Not here. Not like this. Not when so much is still uncertain. Not when so much is at stake. Because Alec isn’t a risk-taker even on the small things, and this is nowhere near small. It’s big. _Monumental_.

 

So he places his hands over the backs of Magnus’, turns his face into the touch, pressing his lips to Magnus’ palm before saying, “I can’t,” because that’s the truth.

 

His voice is broken but he keeps going, says, “I’m sorry, Magnus, it’s just… I can’t. Not now.”

 

 _Not now_ , he thinks. _But maybe..._

 

He opens his eyes finally, forces himself to look at Magnus because he owes him at least that much when he repeats the words, “ _Not now_ ,” like he’s the one begging.

  
  
Like, _please don’t hate me._

  
  
Because that’s what he’s expecting. What he always gets when he fails to do what’s expected of him. What’s wanted of him. Needed of him. He’s expecting hatred, anger, frustration, disappointment. But all he gets from Magnus is a tight nod, is his thumbs, trailing softly under Alec’s eyes, up over his cheekbones before he’s backing off.

 

It’s almost worse than hatred.

 

“I’m sorry, Magnus,” he’s saying a few seconds later.

 

They’re both on their feet now, heading towards the door, and Alec’s stomach is twisted into so many knots he feels like he’s going to be sick as he digs his fingers into his own hair and pulls in an attempt to distract him from the pain overtaking every other part of his body.

 

But Magnus just turns to him with this sharp look of determination in his eyes and says, “No. Do not apologize. You did nothing wrong, Alec. I _mean it_.”

 

He does. Alec can see that clearly, etched in every single line of his face. And Alec…

 

Every time Magnus is nice to him, it just makes him feel a hundred times _worse_.

 

“Get some rest,” Magnus adds, his voice softening in a way that feels like knives, jagged in Alec’s chest. And all Alec can do in response is nod because if he opens his mouth right now, he can’t be sure what exactly will come out of it.

 

He rests his head on the door once Magnus is gone, pressing his forearms into the wood before bouncing his head lightly three times then hauling his right hand back and punching the door so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t break anything. And he’s about to do it again, about to do it until every single bone in his hand is shattered like glass, when Jace calls out to him from the bedroom.

 

“Alec! Water!” he shouts, shaking Alec from the self-pity threatening to crush him. And for the first time in the last half hour, he breathes.

 

Alec _breathes_.

 

“I’m coming!” he calls back, his voice still rough but inching its way back to normal, to _him_ , as he makes his way to the bar to get Jace a bottle of water because that’s what he does.

 

That’s who he _is_.

 

And for right now, that’s just going to have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're hitting a weeee bit of an angst skid here. *in Magnus voice* "Star is writing angst? Who's shocked? Show of hands?" But I promise it won't be too too long and then it'll be SO MUCH FUN. And stuff. *runs away*


	8. Chapter 8

Magnus is not entirely certain when he became Angela Lansbury. But if he were to hazard a guess, it would’ve been right around the time Alec nearly sobbed the words, “Not now,” into the palm of his hand. 

 

_Not now._

Two words that will likely be etched on his tombstone someday, perhaps in the near future if things do not soon make a shift to something less madness inducing.

 

_Not: (adverb) Used with an auxiliary verb or “be” to form the negative._

_Now: (adverb) At the present time or moment._

They are simple. They are both such _simple_ words. And yet Magnus is forced to spend the next three weeks trying to dissect them as if he can figure out their meaning by pulling them apart, letter-by-letter.

 

Two _n’s_ , two _o’s_ , a _t_ , a _w_ , and a whole lot of nothing else.

 

The taste of Vegas still lingers bitterly in his mouth, all these weeks later. It had been a surreal experience to say the least, the lowlight of which had been watching teammate after teammate draped over Alec like cheap, ill-fitting suits.

 

Foolishly, he had thought the night off might be an opportunity to get closer to Alec as the friend he had been trying so valiantly to be. He’d had very simple hopes: See a show with Alec, perhaps get dinner if Alec had not already eaten, talk, bond, the usual. But then he had walked into what can only be described as a massive clusterfuck.

 

It had started with Alec in the towel, with him tossing clothes around his suite willy-nilly all night as if they were still in the locker room and not some place far more intimate. And it had progressed through their time on the couch, inching closer in ways not merely physical, but always interrupted by one needy teammate or another because that is Alec’s life.

 

Alec does not simply breathe hockey; he does not merely live it; he _is_ hockey. And in his world, that means constantly mothering twenty-three adults that often act as if they are still in diapers.

 

In the end, the parade of draperies had at least given him the courage to offer the massage. Because if everyone else was allowed to touch so openly, what could it hurt to ask? Especially given how much physical pain Alec had clearly been in.

 

He had not meant anything by it, not overtly anyway. He had only wanted to help, to take care of Alec in the same way Alec had been taking care of everyone else all evening. But then Alec had grabbed his thigh, had turned into him, had run his hands over Magnus’ body in a way he can still feel if he closes his eyes tightly enough and holds his breath. And so, to put it plainly, Magnus had lost it. 

 

The drunken _whatever_ in the closet at the ball could easily be written off as happenstance. And it would be difficult but not impossible to platonically justify what had happened on Fake Thanksgiving, the lingering touches or their bout of actual footsie, as if people still did that in this day and age. But Vegas?

 

Magnus has no proper way to explain Vegas apart from an _obvious_ that seems so much less obvious when linked to someone like Alec.

 

So he digs, utilizing his admittedly outdated detective skills learned from _Murder, She Wrote_ , the only television show his grandmother allowed him to watch when he was young because she enjoyed sharing it with him.

 

In Jessica Fletcher’s world, there is always an answer. It may take the full hour to find it, but it is _always there._ And if there is one thing Magnus has learned over the course of a life that seems far longer than his age would imply, it’s that if you look hard enough, dig down deep enough, eventually you will find what you’re looking for.

 

Whether or not it’s what you’re _hoping_ for? That is an entirely different plotline.

 

He’d even tried calling Cat about the situation to get her expert opinion. Their first game after Vegas had been a low point for him, seeing the break of both his point streak and the team’s win streak since his arrival. And so he had been in a fit of desperate confusion but not because of those factors as much as because every hit Alec took that night felt like it was ricocheting through Magnus’ own body.

 

All Cat had said when he laid out the facts was an infinitely unhelpful, “Yeah, he wants to fuck you,” before launching into a discussion of the ongoing Cold War between her two cats. One of which used to be his before he moved to Winnipeg and realized he no longer had anyone nearby to watch the Chairman when he was out of town.

 

As pointless as it had become, however, the conversation had at least served one purpose. It had proven to him that he is one hundred percent alone in this endeavor. Because there is simply no one that he can ask about this outside of the voices in his own head.

 

Not Alec, who often seems like a cornered, feral animal when faced with real life situations that don’t involve a stick and a puck.

 

Not his teammates, people like Jace who know Alec better than anyone. Because what if they believe he is straight? What if Alec is deeply closeted? What if this is his first foray into these types of _feelings_ and Magnus inadvertently outs him while digging for his own selfish satisfaction?

 

He knows what that feels like, and he would never, _ever_ wish that upon anyone, especially someone as kindhearted as Alec.

 

He cannot even count on his best friend, who seems to care very little for the fact that Magnus is slowly losing his mind. And so he pulls himself up by his very expensive, designer bootstraps and tries to make the best of an incredibly bewildering situation.

 

The main question surrounds this Lydia person. And Magnus may or may not have a very large, very detailed Venn diagram covering the inside back wall of his hallway closet that he is not entirely proud of bearing the title: “Beard, Bi or Both?”

 

It is covered in articles and pictures run off from the printer he bought especially for this occasion, documenting the two and a half year “relationship” between Alexander Lightwood and the Deadly Blonde. And it seems to be his only glimmer of hope these days, as if he thinks that if he can just figure that part out he may have a shot at maintaining what’s left of his sanity.

 

There are only two options in a situation such as this one: Either Alec is bisexual/gay and Lydia is his very supportive, very pretty beard. Or Alec is bisexual and at least partially in love with his very supportive, very pretty girlfriend.

 

Magnus is obviously hoping for the former, but he is also preparing himself for the latter just in case his luck continues to be as abysmal as it has been every other day of his life.

 

There are countless pictures of Alec and Lydia in public, holding hands and smiling. But there are none of them kissing that he has been able to find. No candids of them at clubs, making out on the dance floor, which seems to suggest a heavy lean towards the _Beard_ side of the scale.

 

But then there is the fact that to his knowledge, Alec does not even go to clubs. And whatever his private life is, he seems to be very intent on keeping it exactly that: _Private_. A goal only helped by his dictator parents that even have the local reporters so terrified they refuse to ask any question that might get them blacklisted. All of which falls in the _Both_ category, if not in the specifically _Bi_ one.

 

His closet looks like it belongs to a crazy person plotting an assassination. But the stolen moments he’s able to spend working on the project seem to keep him going throughout the rest of each day as he buries himself so deeply in hockey that he’s almost become one with the ice itself.

 

Whatever Alec had meant by _not now_ in their potential personal life together, Magnus is still _right now_ his teammate, his linemate, his _friend_ , and that is important to him. Which means apart from running around in mental circles, he has also spent the past three weeks being the best of those three things that he can possibly be.

 

Three weeks spent helping Alec and Luke corral the children at practice. Three weeks spent acting as a social buffer for Alec at team bonding nights. And three weeks spent scoring as many goals as humanly possible on their glorious line that, in spite of a few hiccups, keeps getting better and better as if they are all so in tune they’re practically psychic.

 

It is not entirely altruistic on his part, which is another thing he is not proud of. But his running theory is that if he can make other aspects of Alec’s life as easy as possible, maybe Alec will be able to find a way to open up. _To him_. And whether that ends in them becoming closer friends or something deeper, Magnus is willing to put in the work because he knows the result will be worth it.

 

After all, it is a simple fact of life that you cannot hold Alec Lightwood’s face in the palm of your hands and not be willing to do almost anything to keep it there.  

 

~*~

 

Chants of, “Fuck Detroit,” ring through the arena as they take the ice, drowning out the music played to warm them up that is unnecessary tonight, thanks to the energy of the crowd.

 

It is like his first night here all over again, the surge of adrenaline saturating his system as he cycles through the lazy drills created to get their legs solid beneath them, their attention focused on the game. But they are unnecessary as well because the game is the only thing Magnus can see.

 

This is just the second time they have played the Wings since Magnus arrived, but he can already tell that there is something different about these games. And not simply because the home crowd hates them so much. There is an inevitability here, like two speeding trains, barreling down opposite sides of the same track. Only there is very little question when and how they will meet.

 

Magnus cannot see the future, but he can clearly imagine what it would feel like to take the Cup from Detroit. And he wants that, more than very few other things in his life.

 

Any person who straps on a pair of skates and plays the sport at any level, be it Beer League or NHL, dreams of hoisting the Stanley Cup. But Magnus has never wanted it as badly as he does this season, this moment, surrounded by a team that has finally managed to fit the cliché image he’s been sold all of his life.

 

They are a family. And after seven long years in the League, playing for teams that felt more like stiff gatherings of complete strangers, finding that sense of place, that sense of _home_ here is almost a bigger revelation than what he has potentially found with the man at the center of it.

 

There is no doubt in his mind that the reason this team is so close is because Alec Lightwood is its captain.

 

The game is no less brutal than its predecessor, but whereas they managed to break through fairly easily before, the Wings have been able to figure out a way to gum up the works. And it is maddening for a team built on speed and fluidity to play against an opponent willing to sacrifice their own offense to play a solely defensive game, but that is seemingly what they are up against tonight.

 

Every shift is a giant defensive trap, geared toward forcing them to repeatedly dump the puck into the offensive zone and hope they can dig it out of the corners once again. And so by the end of the first period, a scoreless endeavor that felt like it lasted forty minutes instead of twenty, every single one of them is frustrated beyond belief.

 

Both Alec and Luke try and bring a sense of calm to the locker room during intermission, but things only continue to boil during another ruthless period full of stops, starts, and grueling hits. Which means that by the third, there is an overwhelming sense that things are about to explode.

 

It’s like watching a fuse burn, this game. Like trailing the spark from the lit match all the way to the stick of dynamite, waiting to blow. And it is barely a minute into the third period when that finally happens.

 

Magnus’ line is on the ice for the opening faceoff, one that Alec wins handily against Morgenstern because he at least is still levelheaded and focused even if the rest of his team is not. And for the first time all game they have been allowed to skate the puck into the zone thanks to the way Jace makes a move around the defense that seems almost like a pirouette.

 

The puck is on Magnus’ stick when it happens. Which means his attention is focused mainly on the net, on the overpowering desire to break the 0-0 tie, when something happens in his peripheral.

 

He does not see the full brunt of it, but what he does see chills him down to his very bones.

 

Alec is attempting to get to the crease, is trying to get in close enough for a tip-in or a goalie screen, anything to help Magnus score, when the butt end of Morgenstern’s stick rises forcefully, _purposefully_ to his face. And thanks to his positioning, Magnus is close enough to hear it connect. To hear the sharp crack of wood on bone before Alec collapses like a felled tree, face down and unmoving.

 

There is a good chance that Magnus loses what little is left of his sanity when he sees Alec prone on the ice, pooling blood.

 

Alec is moving a moment later, is trying to regain his feet. But somehow that image is worse than when he was simply lying there, stunned to immobility.

 

He manages momentarily to get to all fours, but the second he tries to get his skates beneath him, he falls again. And all the while he is still just leaking blood from a wound that Magnus hopes is simply _above_ his left eye and not _in it_ because he is a stupid, stubborn man who refuses to wear a visor because he feels as if he cannot see the puck as well with one on and the team’s success is more important than his own safety. And somewhere within all of _that_ , Magnus loses his tentative grip on reality.

 

He sees red like Alec’s blood, mixing into the red of his jersey, dripping on the ice. So his gloves are off a second later and he is reaching out a second after _that_ , but it is not to help.

 

Magnus wants to _hurt_.

 

It feels good to twist his fingers in Moregenstern’s jersey, feels even _better_ to make a fist and connect with his face. And though he does not particularly care if Sebastian engages in the fight or simply tries to turtle on the ice, he is still almost relieved to feel a fist slam into his own jaw because he needs to feel something right now other than fear.

 

He loses himself in the battle, in the feel of war, pressed to the edges of him as he tries to do anything in his power to erase the images from his head.

 

The way Alec’s head had snapped back from the hit.

 

The way his body had crumpled as if he had been shot.

 

The way he’d stumbled while trying to get back up, unable to steady himself but still _trying_ because Alec is not the type of person to stay down.

 

Magnus will do anything right now to un-see those things, up to and including beating Morgenstern to unconsciousness if he has to. Only before he is able to get that far, there are hands on his jersey, pulling him back.

 

He turns around and shoves violently, unaware and uncaring if he is attacking a teammate or a linesman. But before he can get his hands back on Morgenstern, Jace is grabbing him again. Is dragging him away as Morgenstern takes a knee and presses both of his hands to his face as if he is trying to hold back the damage Magnus caused.

 

Jace does not stop pulling on him until they are at the penalty box, does not release him until he has been shoved safely inside. And now that he is away from the fight, Magnus is able to truly remember what started it all in the first place.

 

He scans the ice desperately in search of Alec, but he is already gone, off the ice, off the bench, hidden away where Magnus cannot see him and he is panicking at that. At wondering what exactly happened while he was on a break from the world.

 

“Give me a minute, will you Jerry?” Jace asks to the referee already circling.

 

“You got thirty seconds, Wayland,” the ref replies before skating a few feet away and then Jace is in front of him, blocking the door to the box so that Magnus cannot get out.

 

Jace grabs his head with glove-free hands, yanking on his ears to arrest his attention as he snaps the words, “ _Look at me_ ,” directly into Magnus’ face.

 

His tone is softer when he continues as if he feels that gentleness is what Magnus needs right now when all he can think about is _blood._

 

“He’s gonna be okay. I know you probably missed this part, given that you were busy beating the shit out of that fucking cock waffle, but he skated off on his own two feet, okay?”

 

Magnus’ eyes drift at that, to where the ice girls are cleaning up the bloody shavings left in Alec’s wake. But the loss of Magnus’ attention prompts Jace to tug on his face once more.

 

“Hey!” he shouts, forcing Magnus to look him in the eye again. “He’s going to be _fine_ , okay? Nod if you’re processing what the fuck I’m saying.”

 

Magnus nods. But though he can clearly understand what Jace is telling him, there is no comfort to be found in his words because Magnus cannot see him. Cannot judge with his own two eyes if Jace is telling the truth. And the weight of that is so heavy it feels as if it is crushing his ribs to dust.

 

“Good,” Jace says in response to Magnus’ weak nod. ” _Good_. Just relax, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

 

“Wayland!” the ref shouts a moment later. And Jace is still mere inches from his face, so he can clearly see the way he rolls his eyes at the interruption.

 

“Shortest fucking thirty seconds of my life, Jerry!” he shouts back at the ref, but he does not remove his eyes from Magnus for a second. His voice low again, soft as he says the words, “Trust me,” before tipping Magnus’ head down and kissing the top of it before taking Magnus’ helmet from Jerry the ref so he can put it on his head, pat his shoulders and skate away.

 

Luke sends Raj to the box to serve Magnus’ minor penalty for instigating the fight as the rest of the team squares up for 4-on-3 play. But when he looks to the other box, Morgenstern is nowhere to be found. Which means he was lucky enough to be allowed to return to the locker rooms after the fight while Magnus is now stuck here for upwards of seventeen minutes like a caged animal.

 

His hands are shaking. There is blood on his knuckles, he cannot seem to get his hands to _stop shaking_ and all he can seem to think is _maybe I should have fought harder._ Maybe he should have done more damage, been more violent, because if he’d been given a game misconduct instead of merely a ten-minute one, he’d be free right now.

 

He’d be with Alec, back in the locker room, in the trainer’s office, holding his hand.

 

As it stands he is stuck, and for potentially two minutes of that time he is stuck with Raj, which does not help his mood any. Especially when Raj takes a seat so far away from him he is practically hugging the side wall of the box as if he is afraid Magnus’ ire will spill over onto him with no one else readily available to attack.

 

He needs to get out of here.

 

Thanks almost entirely to Raphael, the three-man PK unit manages to kill off the first two minutes of Magnus’ penalty. But almost as soon as Raj is released to join the now 4-on-4 action for the remainder of the five-minute fighting penalties, the Wings score. And less than a minute later, they score again.

 

Somehow, Magnus cannot seem to find it in himself to care about that, even though he knows that it is all indirectly if not _directly_ his fault. Because while the game might have been all he could see earlier in the night, now all he can see is Alec.

 

Where is he?

 

_How_ is he?

 

How long until he can see him again?

 

When the fourth line winger that had been serving Morgenstern’s fighting penalty is allowed out of the box, Jace skates over to his side of the ice, removing his glove so that he can make the _okay_ symbol with his fingers. And it is not much, and not nearly what Magnus needs right now, but it does manage to loosen the vise around his chest ever so slightly.

 

There is less than three minutes left in the game when Magnus is released from the box, and they are now down by three goals, an insurmountable lead in a game like this one. Which means Magnus feels even heavier than before as he is finally allowed to take a seat on the bench with his teammates.

 

Luke’s hand is on his shoulder instantly, his voice low but strong when he leans down to say directly into Magnus’ ear, “He’s fine. Needed a bunch of stitches and they’re doing the concussion tests just as a precaution, but he’s _fine_.” 

 

Magnus almost sobs in relief.

 

It is not their first loss since the trade, but it is their worst, and Magnus carries the brunt of that as they all file back down the hallway to the locker room. But it is something that he shoves aside for later as he waits impatiently through the post game speeches and team rallying moments until he is free.

 

He should stay at his stall, wait for the reporters that will no doubt wish to speak with him after tonight’s display. But after a tight nod from Luke telling him that he is allowed to go, Magnus does just that.

 

He _goes_.

 

The trainer’s room is not far from the locker room, and yet it feels as if it is miles away. Magnus’ legs shaky beneath him as he makes his way there, skate free but still wearing the majority of his uniform because he could not even spare the time it would take to remove it. Once he arrives outside the door, though, he freezes.

 

Alec is not alone, and though he can only see her back, it is clear from the way they are standing that it is Lydia that is with him.

 

He is sitting on the edge of a metal table, his chest bare, splashed with his own blood as Lydia holds one of his hands in her own while using her other to trace over the new stitches just above his left eye.

 

Alec is smiling softly at whatever Lydia is saying, his eyes sleepy almost, drifting away as Lydia leans in to kiss the wound and Magnus turns away at that.

 

It feels as if something is snapping inside of him, but he is too turned around in his own mind to know what that might be just yet.

 

What he does know is that he needs to get laid. That is the overriding sense he is feeling as he emerges from the showers fifteen minutes later. There is too much adrenaline still pumping through his veins right now, too much pressure to sustain, and so if he does not find some way to release it there is a fair chance that he will spontaneously combust.

 

Aside from Alec, Magnus has not had intimate physical contact with anyone since that night in New York. And he can still hear Alec’s words in his head, can still distinctly make out the plea in his voice the final time he had said _not now_ , but at this moment Magnus needs something. _Anything_. So though he likes to think of himself as a patient man, the truth of the situation is far less idyllic.

 

It does not take long for him to find a willing participant, once he actively looks. But as he rests his back against the wall of the bathroom stall in the club whose name he has already forgotten, his fingers twisted in the dark hair of the man kneeling before him whose name he has forgotten as well, the only thing he can seem to think about are hazel fucking eyes.

 

The nameless face is perfect, is exactly the type of guy that would have had Magnus begging for at least six hours in the past, if not more. Dark hair, blue eyes, the combination he has always loved, especially on men, only it seems as if somehow Alec Lightwood has wrecked that for him.

 

He ruined an entire _eye color_. How is that even possible?

 

Though the blowjob works in the strictest sense of the term, it does nothing to settle him inside. And so even though the nameless face is quite literally pleading to go home with him a short while later, Magnus takes his leave because he can see the score clearly already, written in the color of blood all across the wall.

 

He is broken. Alec has _broken him_. And until he can figure that out, there is little to no chance of repair.

 

He returns to his hotel a few hours later, alone, drunk, and miserable. And he is tired enough that when he opens his closet door to put away his coat, the sight of his wall of shame sets him off.

 

Before he is done, every single scrap of his three weeks of work is torn to shreds, stuffed into an overflowing wastebasket. And it does not make him feel better necessarily, but it does make him feel less like a walking corpse and so he will take it and try to be grateful.

 

He is about to head to the shower to wash the feel of Mr. No Name off when there is a sharp knock on his door. And it is late – far later than he would expect to have company – but there is enough desperation in the knock to get him to answer it.  

“Is he here?” Jace bites out frantically as if he assumes that Magnus will know what he is speaking of.

 

“Is who here?”

 

Jace rolls his eyes. “Alec.”

 

Magnus sees Jace’s eye roll and raises him one arms-over-chest grip. “Why would Alec be here?”

 

“I don’t know, I thought you two were,” he starts to say before evidently thinking better of wherever the hell he was going with that. “Forget it. When was the last time you saw him?”

 

Magnus’ mind flashes back to Lydia and Alec, fingers entwined, Lydia’s lips pressed to Alec’s wound, and he feels momentarily as if he is going to be sick.

 

“After the game,” he says.

 

Prompting Jace to bite out the word, “Shit,” before he is literally shoving his way past Magnus into his room without so much as a _come on in._  

 

He is not certain how Alec has managed to go so long as Jace’s friend without murdering him and burying him in the desert.

 

Jace is on his phone a second later, not even bothering to explain to Magnus, whose room he just invaded, what is going on. And he is pissed, pure and simple, but in spite of his better judgment he is also _curious_. So instead of tossing Jace out like he knows he should, he remains still and listens.

 

“Hey, Iz. Yeah, I’m with Magnus. He hasn’t seen him either.”

 

He pauses briefly to let Isabelle speak before pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning, “No, I did not check under the bed, grow the fuck up would you? He’s not here. You sure you don’t know what happened at the meeting?”

 

This time when he pauses, Magnus comes to the stunning realization that he is already holding his breath.

 

“Yeah, and asking your parents will only throw up more red flags. _Fuck_ , this is bad, isn’t it? I feel like this is really fucking _bad_ … Well fuck, Iz, maybe you should be _more_ melodramatic. Just… put Lydia on, would you? I need to talk to someone with fucking _sense._ ”

 

_What is bad_ , Magnus wants to ask. Wants to _scream_. But for some reason, he is still just frozen.

 

“Hey Lyd. When was the last time you saw him again? At the stadium too? Fuck, that was,” he lowers his phone so that he can check the time. “That was three and a half hours ago. The fucker could be halfway to Canada by now. I think… yeah, I think I need to call Ty at CPD.”

 

He pauses just long enough to roll his eyes once more.

 

“Yeah, he’s the guy that fixes my tickets, you got a problem with that?”

 

Every time Jace stops speaking, Magnus’ heart cinches further up the back of his throat.

 

“What do you think I’m going to ask him to do, go out with bloodhounds? I’m going to ask him to ping his cell or whatever the fuck they do on those TV shows. And, might I add, we wouldn’t be having this problem if you’d convinced him to get Find My Friends… Me? How the fuck was I supposed to convince him to do it? The asshole already thinks I’m stalking him. If I’d asked him to put that app on his phone it would’ve just confirmed it.”

 

He lets his phone drop to his side this time, running a palm hard down his face as Lydia’s voice echoes dully from his cell.

 

“If I was stalking him, would I even be talking to you right now?” he asks once he rejoins the conversation.

 

“All fucking joking aside, I am seriously reconsidering putting that LoJack in his SUV… Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be telling me how unethical that was if it was helping us find his dumb ass right now, would you? You know what, whatever. I gotta go call Ty. Just, call me if you hear anything, okay? Yeah. Sure. Bye.”

 

Jace is heading towards Magnus’ door at that, searching through his phone directory for the number of this Ty person. And Magnus is so painfully confused right now that he doesn’t totally realize that Jace is actually talking to him again when he stops just outside Magnus’ still open door.

 

“What?” Magnus asks through the pounding in his head.

 

“I asked if you were coming.”

 

“Coming where?”

 

“To find Alec, dipshit.”

 

“Oh,” Magnus says because that is the only word he can think of. But Jace’s hand is flat on his chest when he goes to take a step into the hallway.

 

“Um, it’s fucking freezing outside. You might want to bring, I don’t know, shoes? And a coat?”

 

Magnus looks down at his bare feet and even barer arms before nodding and retreating back inside to grab the shoes and coat Jace had mentioned. And then he is leaving. With Jace. To find Alec. Because that is apparently what his night has become.

 

When they get downstairs to the curb, Magnus takes one look at Jace’s jet black Maserati and immediately moves to head back inside. Because he may have never had the pleasure of driving with Jace, but given that he is a maniac in all other areas of his life, Magnus has zero desire to be inside that type of a car with that type of a person.

 

Jace is grabbing his arm, though, a gesture that makes Magnus’ hackles rise before Jace is quite plainly shoving him inside the vehicle the same way he’d manhandled him into the penalty box earlier this evening. And at some point they are going to have to have a discussion about this, about how Jace is not allowed to touch Magnus without his express permission. But right now he goes along with it because Alec is evidently in some sort of trouble. And regardless of what happened earlier, that is still of great importance to Magnus.

 

“Alec had a meeting with the elder Lightwoods tonight,” Jace says, apropos of nothing as he peels away from the curb.

 

“Oh,” Magnus says as he tightens his seatbelt as much as it will go.

 

“No one knows what it was about. All we know is that he fucked off and disappeared as soon as he got out of it.”

 

“Does he do that often? Fuck off and disappear?”

 

Jace snorts and turns his eyes to Magnus when he really should be focusing them on the road. “You kidding me? I mean, emotionally yes, he’ll run until his ass is on fire. But you should know better than anyone by now that the dickhead’s middle name is Responsibility. He’s been in the middle of taking a fucking shower and still answered me by the second ring before.”

 

“So this is abnormal?” Magnus asks in an attempt to not allow himself to think about Alec in a shower.

 

“Yeah, it’s abnormal as shit.”

 

Jace’s phone rings then, and despite the fact that it is illegal to speak on one’s telephone while driving in the city of Chicago, Jace still does it, keeping only one hand on the wheel and even less eyes on the road.

 

Magnus really hopes that he does not die with Jace Wayland in a fancy Italian sports car tonight.

 

“Hey, Ty, yeah, you got him? Sound-Bar. Perfect. Thanks buddy! I owe you!”

 

He pulls a screeching U-turn at that, one that makes Magnus’ life flash before his eyes, before they are heading in the opposite direction toward whatever bar Alec has apparently _fucked off and disappeared_ to this evening.

 

“I wanted to thank you for tonight,” Jace says as he presses his foot even harder on the gas, prompting Magnus to cling to the handle above the door generally used for hanging suits.

 

“For going after Morgenstern like that. I mean, I was on my way to do the same thing, and I think you seriously pissed off Raphael. He’s been fucking itching for a reason to kick the shit out of that guy all season. But that was real solid of you.”

 

“You’re welcome?” Magnus says because Jace is looking at him now, which means he is expecting some sort of response. But the words come out as a question given that he is still not entirely sure what is even happening here.

 

Jace reaches out and shoves him. “Man, though, you really kicked the shit out of him. Rumor mill has it you broke his nose, which is just, like, fucking _golden_. You’re one scary SOB when you’re pissed. Remind me never to fuck with your shit.”

 

Something heavy settles in Magnus’ gut when he says that, the words _your shit_ burning a path through his veins as the implication burrows into his mind. Which is why he says, “I would have done that for anyone,” even though he knows that is not strictly true because he is not entirely comfortable with Jace implying that Alec is somehow _his shit_.

 

Magnus is not a fighter. In his seven years in the league he can count on one hand how many fights he’s been in, and the other three were all to defend himself, not others.   


“Yuh-huh,” Jace says as he finally returns his full attention to the road. “Right, right, I got ya, but either way man, thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” he repeats, but this time the words only come out as a sigh. Because talking to Jace is not unlike talking to that light pole he tried to hit on all those years ago.

 

It takes them fifteen minutes to reach the bar, a quarter of an hour in which Jace does at least eight things that make Magnus fear for his life. And he is so grateful to place his feet on solid ground again that it takes him a moment to realize that Sound-Bar is in fact a _club_ , complete with the sound of pounding bass music and a line wrapped halfway around the block.

 

Evidently Alec goes to clubs after all.

 

In a twist that would surprise no one in the entire city, possibly the country, Jace and the bouncer are on a first name basis. Which means they are able to gain entry to the club quickly. But once he is inside, Magnus is struck with the realization that one would be hard pressed to find a place less suited to Alec Lightwood than this.

 

It makes his heart sink. Because if Alec felt the need to come here to get away, it is obvious that his goal was to hide in plain, techno-beated sight. And Magnus is not sure he wants to discover what exactly Alec’s parents did to make him feel that way.

 

“You go left, I’ll take right!” Jace screams over the music currently rattling Magnus’ bones. “Text if you find him!” And then Magnus is left alone to wander the dim, strobe-lit establishment full of writhing, sweaty bodies in search of what is surely one very sad, very out of place Lost Puppy Giant.

 

He is not sure if he should be surprised that he is the one to find Alec first, but he is a bit shocked by how quickly he does it. It is almost as if his feet just know where to go, like there’s some part of him that can sense when Alec is near and is constantly pulled in that direction. And it might be a little unsettling to him if not for the fact that at this particular moment it is a great help.

 

He looks awful, Magnus can tell that even from ten feet out in a poorly lit room. He is leaning over the bar, holding his head up with one arm in a way that tips his face into the light behind the bar itself. And between the stitches, the initial bruising, the swelling, and the copious amounts of alcohol he has likely already imbibed, he is almost unrecognizable as himself.

 

There is a rather large part of Magnus that would like to wrap Alec in his arms, carry him out of here, take him some place safe. And that part has the rest of him in a veritable stranglehold as he slides into the thankfully open stool next to Alec and waits for Alec’s eyes to focus enough to recognize him.

 

The way his presence dawns on Alec, visibly relaxing him and pushing a small, warm smile across his lips makes Magnus’ chest ache. A pain that feels almost unbearable when Alec leans forward, runs a hand up Magnus’ thigh, presses the uninjured side of his face to Magnus’ shoulder and sighs his name like he has been lost in the desert and Magnus’ name is water itself.

 

“It’s time to go home, Alec,” he says as he risks pressing his lips to the top of Alec’s head because he simply cannot help himself right now, his arms wrapping around Alec’s body like he is trying to shield him from anything that may wish to cause him harm. But as even the smallest of actions have consequences, he is not terribly surprised that his cause Alec to lean in further, to wrap his arms tightly around Magnus’ waist, yanking him off the stool so that they can be plastered to one another.

 

In. Public.

 

This is not going well at all, and there is still quite a lot of land to cover before they are safely outside. And even there they are not necessarily _safe_ , Magnus knows that full well. That even an abandoned alley seemingly free of any other forms of life apart from rats is not secure. But none of that changes the fact that he needs to find a way to get Alec out of this place and into an automobile of some sort before his level of inebriation allows him to do something he will most likely regret.

 

“Come on,” he groans as he hefts Alec off his stool, unwrapping Alec’s arms before draping one of them over his own shoulders for balance in a way that reminds him of Vegas. Of ill-fitting suits only here, now, there seems to be nothing ill fitting about either one of them. For a short while, though, things seem to be working well. Magnus is moving, Alec is moving, and to anyone not capable of reading minds all they would see is one sober friend helping a very drunk friend out of the club. But then…

 

Then Alec leans his head in again. Then Alec’s lips begin to work at Magnus’ neck. His tongue. His teeth. Then Alec is folding around him, is letting go of Magnus’ shoulders in favor of grabbing his hips. And before Magnus can even get a proper handle on any of that, Alec is dragging him into the middle of the dance floor.

 

There are a few things he is thankful for right now. Not many, but _a few_. The first of which is that, thanks to Alec’s injuries, he likely has more anonymity than he would otherwise enjoy. Because most people, when faced with that amount of facial deformation, are conditioned not to look much beyond it. Which means instead of seeing Alec Lightwood, Captain of Your Chicago Blackhawks, all they are likely to see is someone that has presumably been in one hell of an altercation.

 

That’s one thing.

 

The others are smaller than that, and include such facts as: Magnus is glad that he left his jacket in the car, not knowing how long they would be inside searching, because even in just the t-shirt he’d been wearing beneath it he is sweltering in here. Or, Magnus is glad that they are packed into the crowd like sardines, because even if someone were to recognize them, the likelihood that they’d be able to get a cell phone into a good enough position to photograph them is slim.

 

That is about it, though, because anything else he might be grateful for right now is tempered by the fact that there are a few hundred people surrounding them. Which means he cannot even begin to enjoy the way Alec is back at his neck, or the way Alec’s thumbs press down beneath his waistband, swiping over the sensitive skin just above his hips. He cannot melt into the way it feels to have Alec’s body pressed against his like a dream literally sprung to life because the only thing he can focus on is _please do not let anyone film this_.

 

They need to get out of here, but Magnus can tell that his own attempts are half-hearted at best, the way he is moaning the words, “Alec,” and, “stop,” in a way that Alec likely cannot even hear as he tips his head to give Alec free access to his neck. And for the second time this evening, Magnus loses himself, except now the only blood on his mind is the stuff pumping so hard through his veins he feels as if he is about to pass out.

 

When Alec grabs his hips and lifts Magnus just enough to drag him down his own thigh, Magnus realizes two things:

 

One: Alec is far too good at this for it to be his first foray into these types of feelings.

 

Two: If Magnus does not somehow find a way to extricate them from this situation, something very, _very_ bad is going to happen.

 

So Magnus finally _acts_ , in the way he should have all along. And the first step is to remove Alec’s hands from where they are trying once again to get inside his pants.

 

Once that is complete, he reaches for Alec’s head, cupping his face gently, making sure to avoid any parts of it that may cause pain as he lifts it up and shakes it slightly in the hopes of jarring _Alec_ loose.

 

Alec Responsibility Lightwood, where are you?

 

“ _Alec_ ,” he hisses, but there is something in Alec’s eyes that startles him, a darkness that Magnus can remember from the first day they met. And then Alec is grabbing his head, is leaning down, moving in, and Magnus has wanted this so badly that he almost lets Alec do it.

 

He almost lets Alec kiss him.

 

Before their lips touch, though, Magnus comes back to himself enough to hold him back, shaking Alec’s face a little more violently this time as he snaps the words, “ _Not now_ ,” across his lips.

 

Not. Now.

 

It tears apart his insides to say that, to say _those words_ , but he needs Alec to hear him right now and those are the only words he can think of that might hopefully break through the spell.

 

They work. In the most painful way possible, _they work_. And so a moment later Alec is pulling back, is looking down at Magnus with nothing but hurt and confusion in his eyes. And it is basically torture, seeing him this way, but it has given him the space he needs to finish his job and so he does it.

 

He puts Alec’s arm back over his shoulder for balance and walks him the rest of the way out of the club.

 

He texts Jace once they are outside, safely tucked around the corner in case Alec has any other bright ideas. He seems out of it now, though, as he sits on the curb with his face held in his hands. And Magnus would like nothing more than to be able to go to him, put his arm around him, offer comfort. But frankly he is too rattled to even touch Alec at the moment and so he keeps his distance.

 

Jace pulls up in Alec’s SUV a few minutes later, his eyes a little crazy as well like crazy is simply the order of the evening as he jogs around to help Magnus lift Alec off the curb.

 

“We gotta put him in here. I don’t think he’ll fit in the back of Giovanna,” he groans as they lift a mostly resistant Alec between them. 

 

“Is Giovanna your car?” Magnus asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You named your car?”

 

“You kidding me?” Jace asks as he reaches out to open the back door of the SUV. “I name everything. Wanna know what I call my-”

 

“No! I do not!” Magnus shouts as he lets go of Alec so that Jace can finish maneuvering him onto the bench. But Jace is simply smiling like an idiot when he turns to look at Magnus again.

 

“Get your mind out of the gutter, man. I was gonna say my condo.”

 

“No, you were not,” Magnus replies with absolute certainty. Which only causes Jace to laugh deeply and grip his shoulder.  

 

“You’re right. I totally wasn’t,” he says before Magnus shakes him off rather violently.  

 

“Why are you like this?” he asks as he wraps his arms around his stomach in the hopes of stemming off some of the cold.

 

“Why am I like what?”

 

The, “Nevermind,” that slips from Magnus’ lips is little more than a groan, though, as he wonders why he even bothers with Jace.

 

Once they establish that yes, Magnus knows how to drive a car even though he is from California and yes, he knows how to get back to Alec’s place, they split up again. And even though Alec is safely an entire car seat row away from him, as soon as Magnus closes the driver’s door he feels trapped again like he is back in that box, facing down seventeen minutes of hell.

 

His car smells like cheap Mexican food, that’s the first thing that registers. But any sense of bemusement over Alec’s ghastly food choices, given how impeccable his tastes are when actually cooking, are swallowed up as soon as he is dumb enough to look in the rearview mirror.

 

Alec’s right leg is bent at the knee, leaning against the back of the seat while his left foot rests on the floor in a way that pulls his body open towards the front of the car. And the way his arms are up, one flung over the top of his head while the other forearm rests across his eyes, tugs on his shirt, exposing far too much skin for Magnus’ comfort.

 

He rolls all the windows down as soon as the car is on, half to try and sober Alec up and half to cover up the way that he is shaking, as if he can somehow convince himself it is only because he is freezing. But Alec is moaning lightly in the backseat, is moving his lips in a way that suggests there is something interesting going on inside his mind, something Magnus wishes he could be part of. And it is almost enough to make him crack entirely.

 

To make him pull the car over, climb into the backseat and _join him_. But propriety and decorum remind him that anything done with a person in this state of intoxication would fall under the heading of _taking advantage_ and so he drives, his entire body shaking all the way.

 

When Alec moans his name, Magnus almost jerks the car off the road. And it strikes him for not the first time in their acquaintance that there is a fair chance that Alec is going to be the death of him in one way or another.

 

He feels as if he can breathe again when they reach Alec’s parking garage. All he needs to do is hand Alec off to Jace and then he can leave, can hail a cab, go home, and bury himself in something less dangerous. But as with everything else this evening, simplicity is not in the stars for him.

 

It starts with Jace hauling Alec up to a sitting position inside the SUV, with him asking Magnus to crawl in the other side and hold Alec up so that he can literally pour a large cup of coffee down his throat. And Magnus is about to ask how Jace managed to get coffee and still beat them here but then he remembers his own white-knuckle grip on the bar above the door in Jace’s car and swallows the question.

 

Jace holds the back of Alec’s head tightly, refusing to let go until Alec has swallowed every last drop in the cup, calling out soothing words like, “C’mon, buddy, all the way,” as Alec swats his arms at Jace feebly while trying to escape his grip.

 

It’s almost painful to watch, but given Jace’s reaction to the situation it is also likely something they have done before. And so Magnus lets his worries go.

 

Alec chokes a little at the end, coughing out stray bits of coffee as Jace helps him out of the vehicle. And he still seems dazed as he regains his feet, but the coffee already seems to be helping judging by the way Alec sounds vaguely like _Alec_ when he asks, “Where am I?”

 

“You’re home,” Jace replies as he takes his position under Alec’s left arm. “Or almost home, anyway. Just a short elevator ride and then we’ll have you safely tucked in bed.”

 

“We?” he asks right as Magnus is hopping out of the backseat. And any thoughts he had about Alec actually remembering what happened inside the club are clearly answered when Alec’s eyes land on him.

 

He looks completely befuddled, his voice bearing strong traces of the same emotion when he asks, “Magnus?”

 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Magnus replies because he is a bitchy idiot as he leverages himself under Alec’s right shoulder.

 

But Alec does not seem to be deterred from his confusion as he begins to ask, “Why are you… oh fuck, hold on.”

 

He is vomiting at that, leaning over to try and find a place to do it that is a little less _peopled._ And the way Jace literally jumps away from him, forcing Magnus to hold Alec up on his own or risk him face-planting in his own puke, makes him want to punch Jace in the face.

 

“What?” Jace asks in response to the way Magnus glares at him as he helps Alec to a crouching position. “I’m not letting him ruin another pair of shoes. The cheap ass still hasn’t replaced the last pair yet.”

 

“Get it all out,” Magnus says soothingly while still glaring at Jace, one of his hands rubbing soft circles in between Alec’s shoulder blades as he continues to wretch onto the pavement.

 

“Are you all right?” Magnus asks when it appears that Alec has finished. And the look on Alec’s face when he turns his head to nod at Magnus is almost enough to break his heart.

 

He is ashamed. Deeply, _deeply_ ashamed.

 

“Here,” Jace says a second later as he shoves a stick of gum in Alec’s face before smiling at Magnus and adding, “See? I’m helpful.” All of which are actions that do very little to curb the way he still feels like decking Jace right now.

 

“Would you just help me get him up?” he asks, unwilling to hide the anger in his voice.

 

But Jace either doesn’t pick up on it or doesn’t care, because his voice is just as chipper when he reaches down to help and says, “Sure thing, Mags.”

 

“Do not call me that,” Magnus replies as the pair of them complete their Alec Lightwood bookends once more.

 

“Aw, c’mon, why not? Raphael gets to call you that.”

 

“That is because I have known Raphael since I was twelve. You and I do not have that luxury.”

 

_Luxury_ , Magnus thinks. What a poor choice of words.

 

“You’re no fun,” Jace says with an actual pout on his lips. And Magnus is too tired to even bother responding to him at this point.

 

All he wants to do is _go home_.

 

Jace seems to have no shortage of requests for him, though. Could you get the door? Could you help me get him to his bed? Could you take off his shoes while I get some water? And he knows what he is doing. For some reason, Jace is doing everything in his power to make sure that Magnus does not leave right now. The only thing he cannot figure out is _why_.

 

Magnus is just finishing removing Alec’s boots when Jace returns with an opened bottle of water with a bright pink bendy straw stuck in the top. And as Jace takes a seat next to Alec on the bed, lifting his head up far more gently than he had with the coffee so he can place the straw in Alec’s mouth, Magnus sees that as his opportunity to leave. Except a second later Jace is asking, “What happened, buddy?” and Magnus…

 

Well, Magnus is _curious_. And he’s made it this far into the evening already, hasn’t he? He’s already passed through every fiery trial the night has thrown at him. So he deserves to at least know what started all of it, right?

 

Once he has finished drinking half of the bottle of water, Alec tips his head back into his pillows, shuts his eyes, and says in the most miserable tone Magnus has ever heard, “They want me to get married.”

 

That… was not what Magnus was expecting.

 

“Maryse and Robert?” Jace asks, and Magnus is relieved at how confused Jace sounds because at least he is not alone here.

 

Alec nods his head slowly. “They said I’ve been dating her long enough. That it would be a good image boost for the team. That we…”

 

He pauses, opening his eyes to look briefly at Magnus before closing them again and rubbing his palms over his face as he groans the words, “They said that we need something to… _deflect_ right now, and that an engagement is the perfect kind of PR the team needs.”

 

“Is this because of me?” Magnus finds himself asking, the question leaving his lips before he can really even form it properly in his head.

 

Alec says, “No,” at the same time Jace says, “Yes.” A response from Jace that prompts Alec to smack him hard on the shoulder.

 

“What?” Jace bites out as he rubs the area where Alec hit him. “I’m just trying to be fucking honest with the guy. Might be something you could try with him sometime, ass face.”

 

Magnus is only half paying attention to them at best as his mind searches through the last few weeks for problems he may not have noticed. Because the post game questions have been easier of late, more focused on hockey, less on his sex life. And sure, one of his male exes had done a piece with a gossip rag about a week ago, but that story had only been in the news cycle for a few days and none of the beat reporters had even asked him about it.

 

He’d thought it was because it was no longer news, because _he_ was no longer news. But then he remembers the first game he was here, the way Isabelle and her parents had worked to snuff out the fire of Alec’s tirade before it could be made public, and it makes him wonder how many fires the Lightwoods have been putting out for him since he joined the team.

 

“If they were so worried about the PR surrounding me, why would they make the trade?” Magnus asks as he feels sick to his stomach for not the first time this evening.

 

“Honestly?” Jace asks as he turns to face him. “They want a Cup more and they got you for a fucking steal. They never met a bargain basement sale they could pass up, and they never invited a problem that they couldn’t bitch about afterward.”

 

“No offense, Alec, but your parents are assholes,” Magnus says bitterly, but the way Alec is looking at him makes him feel as if he just called Alec an asshole as well.

 

He wants to explain himself, wants to make it very clear to Alec that this is in no way his fault. But he’s not sure he would even be able to find the words to do that tonight, and is even less sure that Alec would be able to hear them in his current state. And so he lets the issue hang where it is and hopes that they will be able to find a way to rectify it sometime in the not too distant future.

 

“I gotta go call the Phone Tree, you mind sitting with him for a minute?” Jace asks as he rises from the bed. And Magnus is nodding in spite of how much he still wants to escape because he’s in this, apparently, for however long he’s needed.

 

He sits on the edge of the bed as soon as Jace is gone, resting his back against the headboard and stretching his legs along the edge of the mattress as he asks, “How are you doing?” to what appears to be a mostly passed out Alec.

 

“Depends. Is the room actually spinning?”

 

“No,” Magnus replies with a small, sad laugh.

 

“Then not good.”

 

“You know, you probably shouldn’t be lying on your back right now, in case you pass out. You don’t want to risk puking again in your-”

 

Before he can get the word _sleep_ out, Alec is rolling onto his side.

 

Correction: Alec is rolling _onto Magnus’ lap_.

 

Instead of moving away like he probably should, Magnus actually sinks down further into the bed, giving Alec a more comfortable way to lay on him. And as Alec wraps his arms around his waist, resting his head on his stomach like Magnus is his new favorite pillow, any shot he had at leaving evaporates in front of his eyes. And he doesn’t just mean tonight.

 

He is broken, and Alec is the only glue left on the shelf.

 

“How much do you charge for drunken cuddles?” Alec asks softly a short while later.

 

“For you, Alexander?” Magnus says as he twists his fingers lightly in Alec’s hair. “They are free of charge.”

 

Alec squeezes him tighter at that, a response that only makes Magnus ache more deeply before the next words out of Alec’s mouth shatter his heart as effectively as a sledgehammer.

 

“Would you stay with me? Please?”

 

Magnus sighs, trying not to allow his voice to sound as raw as it feels when he replies, “Of course, Alec. I will stay as long as you want me to.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Magnus rests his head back and shuts his eyes, his voice sounding distant even to him when he says, “You’re welcome. Now rest.”

 

Alec seems to follow his advice, judging by the way his breathing slows incrementally until he is likely sound asleep. And Magnus is just about to join him in that when Jace returns.

 

“You okay here?” he asks as he pulls a blanket from a nearby chair to cover where he and Alec are wrapped around one another. “You need anything before I head out?”

 

“I am fine,” Magnus lies. But what he needs right now Jace cannot supply, and so in this instance his claim is also technically the truth.

 

He assumes that is the end of it, that once Jace gets up to leave he will simply be gone. But he stops at the door instead, pausing for a few long seconds before turning around and saying, “I’m glad you’re here. And not… not just because of hockey.”

 

He pauses again, this time to absently scratch at the paint on the doorjamb before saying, even more quietly than before, “You’re good for him. And I just… I hope he’s good for you, too.”

 

Magnus finds that he is holding his breath again when Jace looks up at him, but he has no words in his vocabulary to respond to what Jace just said. So instead he just sits there in silence while Jace runs his fingers back through his hair, smiles, nods, and says, “Goodnight,” like that is simply the end of this.

 

“Goodnight,” Magnus replies with a tight nod of his own before Jace is heading out once more. And Magnus…

 

Magnus doesn’t know what to make of that, so he just adds it to the ever-enlarging list in his head of things about his life that no longer make sense. Every single one of which stems from the man currently passed out in his lap.

 

The one he is already fairly certain he will never be able to let go of.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Laelipoo and Five_of_Five, for being my lamps in the darkest time I've ever known. To Lauren, for helping me realize I could finally let this chapter go. And to everyone that sent me kind messages over the last few months, both here and on Tumblr. You kept me going, even when I was slogging through waist-deep mud, and I truly do love you all.

Alec has never woken up next to anybody before, not for real. Or not since childhood anyway when he and Jace would fall asleep in his bed staring at the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling, telling each other stories of their shared future glory. The general consensus being that Alec would touch the Cup first but only because no one in their right mind would put a “C” on Jace’s sweater and Alec was clearly born to be a captain.

He always leaves, though. The scattered times he’s allowed himself to go home with anybody – always in their beds, never in his – he makes sure to leave before the sun rises. Before he falls asleep even, but not always before the guy dumb enough to get into bed with him does.

He leaves because he can’t stand the thought of anybody leaving him, and can’t fathom a world in which that wouldn’t occur. And so when he opens his eyes the next morning, his lids crusted over from a night he’ll likely regret as soon as he starts remembering it, he finds it difficult to believe what’s in front of him.

Magnus is here. And there’s a small corner of his mind that vaguely remembers asking him to stay – _had he begged?_ – but he’s still having trouble processing the fact that he listened. That, when faced with what can only be described as a human freaking disaster in the shape of Alec Lightwood, Magnus had somehow miraculously decided not to bolt.

He is either incredibly stupid, or incredibly… just… like… wonderful.

He’s lying next to Alec now, curled on his side, his face a half foot from Alec’s at most. Sometime during the night their hands became a tangled mess between their bodies, loosely clutching. And Alec is half asleep and possibly still drunk enough to think that, in this moment, Magnus looks like a fucking angel.

There’s makeup smeared around his eyes, making Alec’s stomach sink at the thought that Jace pulled him away from something fun last night to find his melodramatic ass. But the thin, heather gray t-shirt he’s wearing seems to indicate that he’d been back for the night when whatever happened _happened_.

The shirt is old, really old, older than anything he’s ever seen Magnus wear. Which is weird, something that scratches at the back of Alec’s head until he sees it peeking out from Magnus’ right armpit.

There’s a hole there, one that Alec clearly remembers from when the shirt belonged to him, back before he tossed it to a mildly soaked Magnus in a hotel in Nashville almost two months ago.

Magnus is wearing his shirt. Magnus is lying next to him in _his_ bed, holding _his_ hands, wearing _his_ shirt, and Alec may actually start crying here, that’s how overwhelmed he is already.

He moves his shoulders, careful not to jar the mattress enough to wake Magnus, just wanting to get a little closer to him, breathe him in. And he’d say that this is like a dream but his dreams aren’t like this.

Even in Alec’s dreams, Magnus never stays.

“Are you awake?” he whispers, his voice shaking in his throat. But he can’t tell if it’s because he’s hoping Magnus is awake, or because he’s praying that he isn’t.  
  
He doesn’t even flinch. And Alec guesses that he could be pretending, but he knows from experience that Magnus is a heavy sleeper. Like, hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight heavy. He remembers distinctly from that morning in Nashville how he’d been able to hit the snooze three times on his alarm, shower, pack, and still have to shake Magnus kind of violently to get him to wake up in time to catch their flight.  
  
He’s completely still here, his breathing steady, his face relaxed. So Alec is pretty damn sure he’s asleep when he whispers, “Good, because I wanted to say something and I… well, I guess I don’t want you to actually hear it yet.”

A memory surfaces then, one from last night. How he’d gone to Sound-Bar because he’d figured it was the last place anyone would look for him. And how he’d found the first barstool, ordered the highest proof alcohol he could think of and pulled out his phone so he could continue what he’d been doing before he left the United Center.

“I think I watched your fight a hundred times,” he says, still so quietly as he pulls one of his hands slowly from the pile on the mattress so he can trail his fingers faintly over the bruise on Magnus’ jaw, being careful not to touch enough to disturb him.

“No one’s ever… no one’s ever done anything like that for me before. Not like that. The way you went after him like…”

He shuts his eyes, replaying the fight over the backs of his eyelids. Feeling the sheer violence of it soak into his skin, work down into his bones.

“I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise with you at this point,” he sighs as he lets his eyes reopen to a dream that has yet to fade away. “I seem to be having a lot of firsts with you. But it… it made me realize something.”

He swallows hard at that as another memory resurfaces. Jace on his bed, bitching at him for his lack of honesty. And yeah, technically none of this counts because Magnus is unconscious. But maybe he can think of it as practice for later.

Not now.

But _later_.

“I want you in my life.”

Even though he knows that Magnus can’t hear him, the words still want to jam up inside his throat, the muscles in his neck tightening so badly he feels like he’s going to lose his airway if he’s not careful.

“I don’t know what you want from me, how long or… whatever. But I think… I think I might really want to find out. And I just…”

 _I_ _don’t_ _know_ _what_ _I_ _just_ , he thinks as more memories flicker back into focus. This time his parents. Their anger. Their demands. And the way he’d felt like he was caught in a bear trap as he’d sat in their office, almost willing to chew his own damn leg off just to get free.

“I don’t know if there’s a way out of this, but if there is, I promise you I’ll find it. And I hope… I hope you’re still here when I do.”

He leans in at that, resting his lips gently along Magnus’ bruised knuckles before tugging his other hand free so that he can roll off the bed. Because as much as he’d love to stay where he is, wait right here until Magnus opens his eyes, he’s not ready for that yet.

 _Later_.

He leaves a post-it note on the bed before ducking out of the room:

_Heading down to the gym. There’s leftover homemade coffee cake in the fridge if you’re hungry. Hope you like raspberries._

He almost adds a thank you to the bottom. But that’s something he needs to say in person, not on a fucking post-it note, so he leaves it off. 

The part of him that’s a bit of a clean freak is trying to tell him to shower before he does anything else. He should feel gross right now, given the sweaty crowds and alcohol sweats he probably endured last night. Additionally, judging by the super awesome taste in his mouth, he’s pretty sure he puked at least once at some point. But even with all that, he can’t bring himself to wash the night off just yet.

He slept with Magnus last night. There’s even a faint memory of him sleeping on Magnus last night. And it’s like that simple fact cancels out all the others.

He does brush his teeth, though, thanks to the flavor of stale vomit. Which gives him a good two minutes to analyze the mess his face has become in the last twelve hours.

The swelling has diminished to the point that the left side is roughly back in proportion with the right side, but everything else seems somehow worse than when he’d looked in the mirror in the training room after the fact. The stitches are ghastly, like Frankenstein’s monster ghastly, swimming in what’s pretty much the ugliest bruise he’s ever had. And Alec has sported a lot of ugly ass bruises in his life.

There’s also his left eye, red in a way that means burst capillaries more than massive hangover. And it’s funny to him, given that he’s never really considered himself conventionally attractive, that Magnus had looked at this face and still thought to himself: Gee, I think I’d like to spend a night in bed with this guy.

Wonders never cease, he guesses. 

He has to sneak back into his room to grab a pair of sweats and a tank that’s lacking in the caked on puke department. But Magnus still hasn’t moved a single muscle by the time Alec is finished with all that and so he’s grateful as he makes his way down to the gym. 

He’ll wake up eventually. Alec will have to deal with this eventually. But right now, the only thing he wants to do is punch something. Hard. Because as soon as he leaves his apartment, the second he steps outside the bubble he’d managed to create with Magnus, the previous night starts to encroach on him, tightening like a vise. 

His phone’s been on silent ever since he left the stadium, which means it’s overflowing with texts and voicemails. He deletes all the ones from before Jace found him outright, though, because he doesn’t need to hear everyone’s worry today. The pissed off resignation after he was found is likely to be bad enough.

That leaves only one voicemail and a dozen or so texts, but he listens to the voicemail first because it’s from his sister. Which means it’s a band aid he’s going to want to rip off fast.  
  
“Good morning, big brother,” she says even though the message came in at four o’clock, a time Izzy still considers night.  
  
“Don’t be mad at him, but Jace told us what happened with mom and dad. I think he just didn’t want you to have to. I know you’re probably spinning, so try to put it out of your head today, okay?”  
  
She pauses there, the line going so quiet Alec almost thinks – hopes – that that’s the end of it. She’s back a second later, though, with a voice so hollow it makes his fist tighten around the phone.  
  
“We do need to talk, though. The three of us. Just. Come over tonight after the game, yeah? And I mean it about shoving it aside for now. Everything is going to be fine. Love you. Don’t forget that. We both love you.”  
  
He wishes the call had come at any other time of day, that she didn’t make it at the ass end of night after hours spent worrying about him because he can’t figure out what’s in her voice. She’s too tired, too drained, and those seem to be the feelings overriding her tone. Which means anything else that was going on in her head with regards to the fact that Jace had just told her that her parents want her brother to marry her freaking girlfriend is lost in the wash.  
  
The _don’t_ _worry_ stuff could just be the PR in her for all he knows, a play to make sure that the captain of her team doesn’t get so lost inside his own head that he fucks up the game tonight, blows another win. And he knows it’s shitty of him to even think that, to even consider that at a time like this Izzy would be thinking about business, but she was raised a Lightwood so really, Alec doesn’t know.  
  
He plays the message three more times, trying to hear between the lines. There isn’t even a single text from Lydia, let alone a voicemail, which eats at him, like she’s being purposefully silent. And all of that culminates in him feeling sick to his freaking stomach by the time he reaches the gym.  
  
_It’s_ _over_ , he thinks as he heads to his favorite punching bag in a room that’s thankfully empty, given the time and the fact that it’s a weekday. There’s no way Lydia is going to want to turn their arrangement into a fake engagement, even if Alec asked her to – which he never would. And there’s no way his parents are going to accept anything less than that right now.  
  
Rock, meet fucking hard place.  
  
His blood is on fire the second his fist connects with the bag, each punch ricocheting back through him with an ever-increasing intensity until his whole body is vibrating from it. But he’s not really here, not entirely. His body may be, but his mind has fucked off to some place else. 

“You have let control of this team slip,” his mother says, her lips set to a thin, sharp line as she stands behind her desk, hands on her hips as she glares at where Alec is sitting in front of her like a whipped dog. 

“First the ball and now that display out there tonight?”

“What display?” he says, his voice a poor attempt at strength. “It was a hockey fight. They happen.”

“That was not a hockey fight; that was an assault. He acted like an animal.”

The word _animal_ drags up Alec’s spine, settling painfully at the base of his neck.

“Would you say that if Raphael had been the one fighting?”

She places her palms flat on her desk so she can lean over, bury her face in shadows. “Raphael would not have sent him to the emergency room.”

She pauses there, but only so that she can regain her ramrod posture, folding her arms over her chest in the international sign of Lightwood Disapproval. And in that moment, Alec makes the mistake of looking at his father.

He’s not really expecting any help from him, but the way he won’t even look at Alec, sitting in his chair in the corner, his eyes turned down to his lap, feels more like abandonment than anything else his father has ever done or not done in his entire life.

Alec is alone here, that much is plain. 

“I should not be surprised at his actions, given that he cannot even control where he sticks it in his free time,” his mother continues, her voice full of so much venom he can feel the poison working through his veins already, weakening him, draining the fight clear from his body. “I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that no more of his boys have surfaced of late.”

Alec is still sitting in the small, wooden chair in front of his mother’s desk, but he’s also burying his fists into a punching bag, over and over and over until it hurts. Until he hurts. Because right now, pain is the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“You don’t know anything about him,” he says, but his voice is all wrong. It’s too quiet, too low, like he’s trying to hide when right now he should be standing tall. Should be defending Magnus the same way Magnus had defended him out there on the ice.

“And you do? Tell me, what do you know about him Alec? Did he tell you that the one that went to the press last week was an exotic dancer? We had to call in quite a few favors to keep that fact hidden.”

“So he dated a stripper,” he says, his voice finding a little more power at those words, a little more heat as he finally looks up at his mother again, at eyes that have only ever stared back at him in disappointment. “What does that matter? He’s a good player. A good person.”

“He is a nightmare,” she counters, and her words, they cut him more effectively than a butcher knife ever could as Alec, the real Alec, the here and now and present Alec keeps punching until his arms burn. Until his heart burns in his chest, beating hard enough to shatter ribs.

“And he is seemingly not worth the trouble,” she says. “But since trading him now would serve no purpose, as the captain of this team it is your job to fix this.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Alec asks as whatever is left of him – the person, the man, the individual – swirls down the drain at his feet. “Go back in time and erase his past?”

“No,” she says darkly. “But you can shift the spotlight.”

He wasn’t wrong about the regret. It piles on him the longer he’s at the bag, his palms aching from where bit down nails dig into skin, the bones in his hands screaming from fists he may never unclench again.  
  
It starts with his mother, with all the things he should have said to her but didn’t, but it doesn’t end there. And so with each memory that surfaces, he punches the bag like it’s not even a bag anymore. Like it’s him, like he’s punching himself, because he’s the one who deserves it right now.  
  
He’s the one who fucked up.  
  
The one who let his focus slip. The one who took his eye off the goal long enough for things to fucking slip. The charity ball. Thanksgiving. Vegas. And now last night. The club. The fucking club that’s coming back to him now like one of those dream sequences you see in movies, where the colors are too bright and sharp to look at them long without getting a fucking migraine.  
  
Magnus was there. And he knew, on some level, that Magnus and Jace had been the ones to find him, but now he remembers it. Remembers himself, his actions. Remembers dragging Magnus onto that dance floor, putting his hands… everywhere. His lips everywhere else.  
  
And he’s lucky. They are so fucking lucky that no one saw them, recognized them, videotaped them, because no amount of his parent’s control would’ve been able to stop something like that from slipping to the press.  
  
What the fuck was he thinking?  
  
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He wasn’t thinking. He was acting. Or reacting or whatever, the same way he always does with Magnus like he can’t actually control himself. And that’s not something Alec’s terribly comfortable with – losing control. Because once it starts to fall away…  
  
He remembers vaguely what it had felt like to wake up next to Magnus. And it’s only been an hour tops but that’s what the memory is, vague. Because when he’d opened his eyes this morning, he was a different person. He was a _person_. But now?  
  
Now all he is is an exposed fucking nerve, beating the shit out of a punching bag because he can’t beat the shit out of himself.  
  
Magnus shows up eventually. And maybe Alec shouldn’t have told him where he was going, maybe he should’ve just said _I’m_ _going_ out, _see_ _you_ _at_ _the_ _morning_ _skate_. But back when he’d written the post-it note, there’d evidently been a part of him that wanted Magnus to find him. Again. Only now that he’s here…  
  
He can’t be sure how long Magnus has been watching him, his eyes unreadable as he stares at where Alec is pretty plainly attacking a punching bag like he’s trying to murder it. But even when he notices him, even when he feels the way Magnus’ eyes settle on him, his expression darkening with each punch, Alec keeps going because he can’t seem to get himself to stop.  
  
It’s a fight to the death. And between him and the bag, only one of them has a life to give up, even though Alec’s feels so small, so thin it’s barely visible anymore.  
  
When Magnus begins moving towards him, Alec hesitates. But it’s only for a blink, one stuttered punch before he tears his eyes away and refocuses on the task before him, his body somehow managing to tense even further the closer Magnus gets.  
  
It’s over, he tries to remind himself, the words cycling through his head like a mantra. It’s over it’s over it’s over it’s over. But when Magnus reaches out to grab Alec’s forearm gently – so fucking gently – something flushes through his system like just that much, just that little is enough to wash the poison out.  
  
Not forever, maybe not even for longer than a minute, but for now, it works.  
  
He doesn’t say anything, just tugs Alec’s arm, maneuvering him away from the bag before reaching up to cup Alec’s face like he’s done so many times before, like his hands were made to fit the curves of Alec’s jaw. And Alec is reaching up too, is wrapping his hands over Magnus’ wrists, but it’s not to push him away.  
  
It’s to hold onto him.  
  
He leans down into the touch, rests his forehead against Magnus’ and just breathes, his lungs on fire but Magnus is sand, dirt, smothering the flames. And right here, right now, in this stolen moment Alec can breathe.  
  
Magnus doesn’t let him go until he’s calm again. And Alec’s not entirely sure how he knows that, if maybe he can just sense it in the tension, leaving Alec’s body. In the way he’s sort of sagging now like he’s about to collapse. But by the time Magnus’ hands leave his face, Alec feels real again, like he actually does have magic fingers capable of bringing the dead back to life. 

He’s taking Alec’s hand a second later, leading him to a nearby bench. And Alec didn’t know how much he needed to sit down until he’s allowed to. His entire body crumpling in a way that’s startling to him, like he’s not quite sure how he’d been able to stay on his feet this long, feeling the way he does.

“How are you doing?” Magnus asks a second later, his voice laced with a kind of concern Alec isn’t used to. The kind that has no ulterior motive behind it whatsoever.

It’s not: How are you doing? Are you well enough to play?

Or: How are you doing? Will you be okay in this interview?

It’s just what it is.

_How are you doing?_

“Physically?” he laughs as he buries his face in his hands. “Not great. But emotionally? Not great either.” 

“Alec,” Magnus starts to say, but Alec is almost positive that he doesn’t want to hear whatever is going to come out of his mouth next. Not here, not now, not when his skin still feels like even the slightest touch will break him completely. 

And so he lets go of his face, leans back, shuts his eyes and says, “I wanted to apologize for last night,” because as much as he still wants to thank Magnus for staying, he really needs to apologize first for everything that came before.

“I’m not usually that…”  
  
“Drunk?” Magnus supplies when Alec can’t seem to find the word he’s looking for.  
  
“I was going to say clingy, but I guess those are the same thing these days.”  
  
He feels Magnus sit next to him at that, feels their shoulders press together, the soft cotton of Alec’s old shirt brushing against his own bare arm.  
  
“Perhaps you learned that from Jace,” Magnus says softly. But before Alec can form any more words, Magnus is continuing.  
  
“There really is no need apologize. That’s what friends are for, right?”  
  
That word feels like a knife straight to his gut: Friends. And he doesn’t get it, why it feels so wrong, so heavy, when five minutes ago he was reminding himself that this is over. But it is what it is, and right now, it’s shitty.  
  
“Besides, I have had far worse experiences in my life,” Magnus adds. “I’m just… concerned. About you. That’s all.”  
  
_Don’t_ _be_ , he wants to say. _I_ _don’t_ _deserve_ _it._ But that’s not what comes out of his mouth when he opens it to speak again.  
  
“Magnus it’s like… it’s like my whole life I’ve been trapped,” he says, the words coming from some place deep, a dark corner of his brain he never visits full of lockboxes he never opens.  
  
“Everything I’ve ever known, everything I’ve ever been...  
  
“It’s not you,” Magnus supplies quietly when Alec can’t find the words.  
  
“I’ve done everything for my parents, for this team,” he says, his voice miserable as something begins to rise up inside of him. Something he’s only ever felt in small bursts before the weight of his life has snuffed it out.  
  
“I’ve done everything that they’ve asked,” he hisses as he finally opens his eyes so he can look at Magnus, almost begging him to finish the sentence, the thought.  
  
Magnus smiles. It’s a ghost, barely a flicker across his lips, but it’s there. And right now, it’s crucial as he says, “Maybe you should start living for yourself. Do what’s in your heart.”  
  
There’s a sense of pressure in his chest, like bending plastic, right before it snaps when he says, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you’re right.”  
  
He does. Right here, right now, he does. And who the hell knows what tomorrow will bring, or fuck, even later today. But in this moment, Alec feels, however faintly, like maybe he can. Like there’s a chance out there, somewhere, a world in which his life matters. His wants matter. And in that world, there are only two things Alec wants.  
  
One of them is thirty-five pounds and feather light, hopefully waiting at the end of this season, and the other is sitting right in front of his fucking face.  
  
“I have some stuff to figure out,” he says shakily as he risks reaching out again, placing the back of Magnus’ hand on his thigh and flattening his palm so he can press his fingers in, link them together. “But I think… I think I’m ready to figure it out.”  
  
He almost chokes on the words. Literally. They’re weighted, heavy, a stone sitting in the middle of his throat. But the way Magnus smiles again at them, his fingers gripped so tightly in Alec’s they hurt, means the absolute fucking world to him.  
  
“I understand,” he says, and Alec believes him.  
  
For once in his life, Alec believes.  
  
~*~  
  
The day starts to slip downhill again once he and Magnus get to the Ice House. They’re late for the morning skate, but Alec’s concern about his tardiness evaporates the second coach G approaches him in the near empty locker room.  
  
“You’re not lacing up today,” he says matter-of-factly like it’s the simplest statement in the world and not one capable of crushing what little hope Alec had managed to gain from his conversation with Magnus.  
  
“What? Why?” he asks, completely unashamed by how his voice cracks around the words. “I passed the concussion tests. I feel fine.”  
  
Luke smiles at him, the parental one that usually makes him feel comforted but that right now makes him want to scream.  
  
“Your face is telling a different story, kid. Look, we’re heading into the holiday break here. I want you to sit tonight. Heal up. We’ll reevaluate after Christmas.”  
  
“I said I’m fine,” Alec snaps. At his coach. Which is not something he thinks he’s ever done in his entire freaking life.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Luke says, the warmth still miraculously in his voice even after Alec’s little display. “But when I said _want_ , what I meant was you’re sitting. End of discussion.”  
  
Alec growls, actually _growls_ as he turns his back on Luke and takes a few tense steps away from him.  
  
“Look, kid, I know how you’re feeling. But we’re going to need you down the stretch. This isn’t just for you, it’s for the team.”  
  
His final words cut through the fog the way he obviously knew they would, calling on Alec’s love for his team to get him to comply as if not complying was ever an option in the first place. But just because he’s following orders, that doesn’t mean he has to like them.  
  
He doesn’t turn around before he leaves the locker room, mostly because he can feel the way Magnus is staring at him from his stall and Alec doesn’t think he could bear to look at him right now. And so he just goes, slipping back down into the pit like that’s just the order of the day.  
  
One step forward, eighty-five steps back.  
  
He watches the skate from the bench like a freaking invalid. And he wants to leave, wants to go home and bury himself in the first thing he can find. But this is still his team and so he stays, regardless of how freaking painful it is for him to do so.  
  
It’s torture, watching someone else center his line. And it’s not like Meliorn isn’t good. Hell, on twenty of the other twenty-nine teams in the league he’d be a first line center. It’s just… it’s not him. Meliorn isn’t him. And so every time he’s on the ice with Jace and Magnus it makes Alec feel like he’s stepped into some sort of alternate reality where he doesn’t exist.  
  
Or worse, where he does exist but he’s just not needed.  
  
If he thought the skate felt bad, it’s nothing compared to the actual game. He’s only ever had to watch his team play from the owner’s suite a few times in his career, but it never gets easier. And it doesn’t matter that they’re playing Philly tonight, a team at the literal bottom of the standings. Or that everyone looked sharp as nails at the skate.  
  
They could win the game by twenty goals and Alec would still feel like he abandoned them. And so his entire body is a giant, lead weight as he rises from his seat for the national anthem, in a box instead of on the ice, in a suit instead of a jersey.  
  
They’d given him a Get Well card before the game, signed by everyone on the team. Raphael had been the one to pick it out supposedly, which is why it says “Get Well Soon, Mom,” on the front and why it’s covered in glitter and flowers. And he knows it was meant to make him feel better, but like with everything else today, the care and consideration intended is having the exact opposite effect on him.  
  
He’s got his eyes locked on it as his team lines up for the opening faceoff, his fingers running absently over where Magnus’ message is tucked away in a corner on the back of the card.  
  
_Take care of yourself, Alexander._  
~Magnus  
  
He knows it means nothing, that he’s just talking about his face, his wound, but it feels like something deeper to him. Like their conversation in the gym this morning, the one that’s still threading weakly through his veins like a promise, buried in all the other shit.  
  
When he hears his sister’s voice, the thread gets thinner, almost imperceptible as Izzy says, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” Only he finds himself smiling in spite of himself, in spite of everything when he forces himself to turn around.  
  
“Max!” he shouts, getting to his feet but only so he can fall to his knees and wait for his little brother to run into his arms.  
  
“Mom and dad picked him up at the airport this morning,” Izzy says as she crosses to where Alec is still holding Max like he’s the last life preserver on the freaking Titanic.  
  
“He flew by himself?” Alec asks, casting concerned eyes up to Izzy.  
  
But it’s Max that answers him, pulling away from Alec so he can scrunch his face up in what’s become the standard Lightwood Children Bitch Face and say, “Jeez, Alec, I’m nine, not four. I think I’m old enough to fly by myself.”  
  
He sounds old. So old. And it breaks his heart a little but not enough to stop him from smiling because Max is home. And good things always seem to happen when the Lightwood siblings are together.  
  
Jace is going to flip his shit.  
  
Izzy kisses the top of Alec’s head before he has a chance to get to his feet, her lips mouthing the word, “Later,” as if she’s worried Alec’s going to force her to talk about their issues in front of Max.  
  
Which… okay, maybe he wasn’t really going to do that, but the thought did cross his mind the second she was within his sight. This moment isn’t about him, though, about them. It’s about Max. And so Alec simply nods and gets to his feet to return the head kiss favor before moving back to his seat.  
  
“Raphael pick this out?” Max asks as he picks up the card Alec had been caressing a few minutes ago.  
  
“How’d you guess?” he asks with a laugh, but it’s a rhetorical question, one Max doesn’t bother answering.  
  
He’s wearing his favorite jersey tonight, the one with Jace’s number but Alec’s name on the back. And as the game wears on, he inches closer to Alec until he’s sitting on top of him.  
  
“You know, for a nine-year-old grown up, you sure like to sit in people’s laps,” Alec says as the buzzer sounds the end of a scoreless first period in which the Actually Shitty Fliers peppered Simon with eighteen shots, at least half of which were good scoring opportunities, and at least half of those required highlight reel saves.  
  
There’s a reason they call him Peter Parker. He may be small and unassuming, but the dude is Spider-Man in the net.  
  
“I just wanted to get a closer look at your face,” Max says in wonder as he climbs up Alec’s chest to get a good look at the wound. “Does it hurt?”  
  
“Not a bit,” he lies with a wink that makes Max roll his eyes. And as he casts his eyes to where Izzy is smiling beside them, he wonders how many other bad habits Max has picked up from them.  
  
Eye rolling he can handle. Some of the others, though?  
  
Izzy disappears for the intermission, heading off to do important PR work, which leaves Alec and Max alone. And it’s quiet for a minute, peaceful and still, until Max decides to break the silence.  
  
“I like Magnus,” he says as he watches some girl in stilettos try and make a goal from center ice during Shoot the Puck.  
  
“You do?” Alec asks, his voice sort of dreamy as he bounces Max absently on his knee like he’s a toddler again, in need of soothing.  
  
“Yeah. He’s amazing. And he’s got an even better shot than Jace.”  
  
Max whips around to look at him when he says that, his eyes wide in terror. “Don’t tell Jace I said that.”  
  
“I won’t,” Alec says with a laugh. And as he digs his fingers into Max’s hair so he can ruffle it, it feels like that piece of bent plastic from before cracks in his chest.  
  
It’s small, light, but it’s almost jarring something loose when he adds, “I like Magnus too,” because he does.  
  
Fuck him, he does. 

The first goal is scored less than a minute into the second when Jace gets a breakaway and buries one between the goalie’s legs. And he’s in the middle of screaming his head off with Max when Jace skates to center ice, kisses his fingers, then turns them into a gun so he can shoot the kiss up at the owner’s box.

It’s annoying, the kind of thing that makes Alec roll his eyes the same way Max had earlier, but for some reason it feels like another crack. Another small fissure, spreading through his chest. 

Jace’s goal breaks the game wide open, and he’s not sure what was said in the locker room on intermission, or who said it, but it’s like he’s watching a different team here. And each goal, without fail, has the same sort of display at center ice.

Raphael, kissing the palm of his hand and slapping his ass before pointing up at Alec.

Jace, turning his kiss into a machine gun this time.

And Magnus…

Magnus does a simple, standard blown kiss, but it breaks the crack even wider. And Alec has to physically sit on his hand to stop himself from reaching out to catch the kiss so he can put it in his pocket for later.

When Jace gets a hat trick early in the third, Alec and Max find every hat in the box and throw them to the ice. And by his fourth goal two shifts later, Jace’s gun has now become a full on bazooka.

Magnus scores the seventh and final goal near the end of the period, and when he blows a kiss this time, Alec does catch it. He doesn’t put it in his pocket, though, he just holds it for a while, clutched in his fist.

They win the game seven-to-nothing, and as the lights dim for the announcement of the three stars, Alec finds himself actually holding his breath.

There’s a lightness in his chest for the first time all day, all week, all season. And it’s weird, given where he is, and given what’s coming later tonight. But he’s a greedy son of a bitch and so he’s going to soak it up as long as it lasts, squeeze out every drop he can.

Magnus gets third star, Jace gets second, but the crowd’s cheering reaches a fevered pitch when Simon is announced as first star, thanks to his fifth shutout of the season. And as Simon skates back onto the ice, helmet off so everyone can see the way he ducks his head shyly away from the applause, it strikes Alec like a physical blow how much he loves every single one of these idiots.

Well, maybe not Raphael. But almost every single one.

The locker room is bedlam when Alec finally makes his way down there, dropping Max off outside his parent’s office because Izzy never came back after the first period and Alec’s pretty sure that whatever is going on downstairs is not nine-year-old appropriate no matter how old Max acts.

Jace is on him the second he walks through the door, gripping his waist and tipping backwards so he can lift him into the air while simultaneously crushing his ribs.  
  
“Why the hell are you still wearing pants?” he asks once he puts Alec safely back on the ground.  
  
“Because pants magic is not an actual thing.”  
  
“What’s pants magic?” Simon asks as he walks up to Alec and hugs him as well in a way that startles him. Because Jace doing it is one thing, but Simon?  
  
“You know,” Jace says in a voice that indicates how obvious he thinks this should be. “If three goals is a hat trick, four is pants magic.”  
  
“You’re a fucking idiot, Wayland,” Raphael grumbles as he walks up to Alec and grips him in a quick, eyes-averted, one-armed hug and Alec…  
  
Maybe it’s the head wound, but Alec just fucking goes with it.  
  
Before all is said and done, every member of the team has hugged Alec except one. And it’s just his luck that the one who’s avoiding him is the only one in the room he actively wants to touch him.  
  
Magnus is smiling, though. Is sitting in his stall just freaking beaming at all the love being thrown Alec’s way. And it makes Alec smile as well, so he guesses it’s all right in the end.  
  
It’s been a strange fucking day.  
  
He’s in the concourse about an hour later, just pacing. The press seemed reluctant to leave tonight, thanks to the remarkable nature of the win and the fact that they need to find enough stories to carry them through Christmas. And the longer Alec paces, the further he feels from the flash of joy he’d felt in the locker room.  
  
He loves this team, loves his family. And he knows beyond any shadow of doubt that he’ll do whatever it takes to make things right with them all. To make things work.  
  
Tonight, that means his sister. It means Lydia. It means figuring out what they want to do and doing it because they’ve stood by him for two and a half years in this. Have put their own lives on hold for two and a half years. And so if all that ends tonight, then that’s just something he’s going to have to accept.  
  
It’s why he’s pacing, though. Why he’s waiting. Because regardless of what happens, there’s someone else in his life now. Someone he really wants to make a place for. And somehow he feels like if he can just see him one more time, then he’ll have the courage he needs to face whatever is coming down the pipe.  
  
Magnus and Raphael are the last two players to leave the locker room, and it feels like time actually freezes when Magnus looks down the hall and sees Alec. Like they’re in some fucking cheesy ass romcom, ready to run across a field of fucking wildflowers to each other. And inside all of that, Alec has to remind himself to breathe.  
  
The only thing he needs to do right now is breathe.  
  
“I’ll catch up,” Magnus says to Raphael before they’re finally, thankfully alone, his words echoing off the walls, carrying down the hall. But the closer Magnus gets to where Alec is rooted to concrete, the worse he feels.

He should’ve thought of what he wanted to say. Should’ve made some sort of script, planned it out at least a little bit. Because now that Magnus is actually here, he’s lost all grasp of the English language.

The only words he can seem to remember are Alec, Magnus, and touch.

“Hey,” Magnus says as he runs his hand back through hair still damp from his shower. Which is not a helpful thought to have right now, of Magnus and showers.

“Are you… were you waiting for somebody?”

“You,” Alec barks out in a way that seems to startle Magnus, which does absolutely jack shit to help his nerves.

“Oh. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I just wanted… um… I wanted,” he starts to stammer, but he can’t seem to get past that phrase – I wanted – like there’s some sort of barrier there, holding him back.

What the hell does he want?

“Raph and I were going to get a drink,” Magnus says when it becomes painfully obvious that Alec has stuttered himself to silence. “Did you want to come?”

“You kidding me? I’ll probably never drink alcohol again,” he says before he realizes the implication behind those words might not be one he wants to make right now. 

The one that goes: Hey, every time I get drunk I can’t stop myself from fondling you, so… yeah… no more booze for me!

Magnus just smiles, though, like he either didn’t read the insinuation or he simply isn’t bothered by it. “I think all bars are required to have non alcoholic beverages, Alec.”

Alec actually slaps his forehead. Which would be dumb enough on a normal night, but given the massive wound taking up a good chunk of his face, the stupidity of the gesture is monumental.

“Right,” he says as Magnus flinches at the pain Alec just caused himself.

“Yeah. That makes complete sense. And I would… like to have a drink with you, I mean. Not Raphael necessarily, because it’s hard for me to be around him without wanting to punch him, but I… um… I can’t. Not punch him, I mean, I could probably punch him if I wanted to, but I can’t come. With you. Tonight. Because I have something to do. Tonight. Something I need to take care of. Tonight.”

There are times in Alec’s life when he wonders why he lets himself speak at all. And this is one of them.

“Rain check?” he spits out once he’s done word vomiting all over Magnus. But if Magnus is put off by Alec’s stupidity, he’s polite enough not to show it.

“Of course,” he says with a soft nod. “Did you need something else, or-”

“No,” Alec snaps as he realizes that they’ve yet to establish why Alec was waiting for him out here like some sort of stalker.

“I just wanted to see you. To say goodnight, I mean. And… um… to check to make sure that I’ll see you at the party tomorrow. You’ll be there, right? You’ll still be in town?”

“My flight home is six a.m.Christmas morning,” Magnus groans in clear reaction to the fact that he has to get up so early on a day off. “So yes, I will still be in town.”

When he stops there, Alec feels a little like he’s sinking inside. And something of that emotion must appear on his face because a second later Magnus is biting out the words, “And at the party. I will most definitely be at the party.”

“Good,” Alec says, his voice sounding a little more relieved than he’d like to admit right now. “Well. Goodnight, then. Have fun with Raph.”

“And you have fun with whatever it is you have to do, too.”

“Yeah. Right. So much fun,” Alec replies as he shoves his hands into his pockets to keep him from reaching out, grabbing Magnus’ shoulders and holding him in place.

Magnus’ eyes scrunch up in confusion, but his voice is still just soft and warm when he says, “Goodnight, Alec.”

Alec is about to let him walk away, take whatever comfort he can from their conversation and leave it at that. But before he even realizes what he’s doing he’s calling out Magnus’ name.

As soon as Magnus turns around Alec grabs him, dragging him into his arms. And the move is bolder than what he normally allows, especially when sober, but their words weren’t enough. He needs more.

“Are you all right?” Magnus asks once he gets past the shock of the hug and settles into it, his head turning so that it’s resting on Alec’s shoulder in a way that makes more cracks open up in his chest.

Not fissures, but fault lines.

What he wants to say is: No. I’m not all right. My life might crumble tonight, and if it does, I want to hold you, just once, and pretend you’re mine.

What he actually says is: “Yeah, it’s just everyone else was hugging me tonight. I thought I’d go for the complete set.”

It’s a dumb thing to say, and nowhere near the truth, but it’s as close as he’s going to get to admitting how much he actually needs Magnus right now.

“Thank you,” he adds if only because he feels like if he keeps talking, he’ll have an excuse to keep hugging as well.

“For what?”

“Last night?” Alec replies, more question than statement. “I never got a chance to thank you. For finding me. For bringing me back.”

“Always,” Magnus all but hums against him. And the fault lines open so wide Alec feels like he’s about to fall headfirst into the center of the fucking earth.

He hugs Magnus tighter, grips him so close he’s not sure how either one of them is still capable of breathing. But he needs this, _he_ _needs_ _this,_ and if Magnus is willing to give it, then Alec’s not going to stop himself from taking it.

For once in his life, Alec allows himself to take.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Magnus asks when Alec finally loosens his grip enough for Magnus to pull back. But even though the hug is over, Magnus still keeps his hands on him, running his fingers down Alec’s lapels as he looks up at him with an expression so warm, so concerned it almost makes Alec collapse outright.

“I’m good,” he lies. But for right now, the lie is going to have to be enough.

~*~

When Alec lightly raps SOS into Izzy’s door, he feels each letter settle heavy in his gut.

Save our ship.

Same old shit.

What’s the difference?

She’s smiling when she opens the door, and he can’t tell if that makes him feel better or worse so he just tries not to think about it at all as he holds out the platter he brought like a sacrificial offering.

“Did you make me a cake?” she asks, taking the plate and examining it as if she recently developed X-ray vision and can now see through the lid.

“Yes.”

“Is it strawberry with homemade butter cream frosting?”

He shifts where he’s standing.

"Yes.”

“Box brand not that fancy from scratch kind?”

“Um, yes?”

Her smile widens as she balances the platter in one hand so she can grab his wrist with the other. “Get your ass in here.”

She drags Alec into the entryway, leaving him to remove his shoes and coat while she takes the cake back into the kitchen. “Sweetheart, Alec’s here!”

Lydia appears a few seconds later, right around the time Alec finishes de-wintering. And her eyes are bright in a way that settles him a little bit, given the fact that he hasn’t heard from or seen her since the bomb dropped last night.

She doesn’t look like she hates him, and that’s a very, very good thing.

When she pulls him down into a hug, the tension in his shoulders loosens even more, but it tightens back up again when she releases him, punches him hard on the shoulder and says, “Don’t ever disappear like that again.”

“Um… I’m sorry… if I worried you.”

She makes this pshaw noise before smacking him again, more lightly this time, and thankfully on the opposite shoulder given that the one she punched is still pretty damn tender.

“I knew you were fine. But Jace was an unholy nightmare.”

“Yeah, he… is,” Alec replies because he can’t think of anything better to say.

And with a warm smile from Lydia, he’s being lead into the living room.

He wonders vaguely if this is what it feels like to walk down death row.

He takes a seat in one of their leather club chairs, leaving the couch for them as they all settle around each other. But when he takes out the scraps of paper he spent the last hour tinkering with, Izzy reaches out immediately and yanks them from his hand.

His heart may sink a little bit when she tears them to shreds.

“I’m not talking to a script,” she says emphatically. “I want to talk to my brother.”

He probably should’ve known something like this would happen. Izzy has never been a huge fan of his need to plan ahead. And she’s heard more than enough of his canned speeches to last her a lifetime. But he almost reaches out to pick up the scraps because even if he can no longer read the words, he still just wishes he had something to hold onto right now. Something real, something tangible, gripped in his fists.  
  
“I think I should tell them,” he blurts out.

Izzy scrunches her eyes down. “Tell who what?”

The lump remains in his throat even after three hard attempts to swallow it, so he leaves it be and powers through.

“Mom and dad. About me. I think I should tell mom and dad about me. That I’m gay.”

Izzy casts her eyes to Lydia, linking their fingers together in a way that makes Alec ache before his sister turns back to him and asks, “Do you actually want to do that?”

Her tone is soft, gentle enough to get him to be honest with her. “No, I don’t actually want to do it. I feel like I’m going to fucking puke every time I even think about the possibility of doing it. But I don’t know what else to do, Iz. I just… I don’t.”

His knee is bouncing pretty hard here, and he’s a half a breakdown away from getting to his feet, pacing the room because he just can’t seem to sit still right now. Every inch of his body alight with the panic brought on by what he’s saying, what he’s thinking, what he might have to be doing sometime soon.

“They’re not going to back down from this,” he says as he begins to wring his hands together, twisting his fingers around and around just to give him something to do with them other than making fists in search of something to punch. “I could tell. And they’re not just going to take no for an answer. So… fuck, Iz, so what else am I supposed to do?”

He does get to his feet at that, begins pacing the space in front of his chair, back and forth, back and forth as he runs his fingers through his hair and tugs on the strands hard enough to hurt. He only manages to get through about four quick trips, though, before Izzy is on her feet.

“Hey,” she says, her voice still so fucking soft as she grips his wrists loosely and holds him in place. “Sit.”

He does as she asks, but only because she’s the one asking him to do it, not because he actually wants to.

“What do you want?” she asks as she lowers herself to her knees, refusing to let go of his wrists for even a second. “If you could have anything you wanted right now, a dream scenario of how this would play out, what would it be?”

The first word that pops into his head is Magnus, but since Magnus is not actually even remotely a solution to this particular situation, he doesn’t bother voicing that thought.

So instead, he says, “I want to pause this. I want to finish the season then… I don’t know, then figure out my life. I want… I want time, Iz. Time to figure…”

 _Magnus_ , he thinks again. He wants time to figure out Magnus. And it may be selfish and stupid and a fucking pipe dream, but it’s what he wants.

“I want to win a fucking Cup,” he continues, “And then? I don’t know. I just want to pause this. Pause them. Get them off my back until shit stops spinning, you know?”

Izzy’s eyes are sad, basically about as miserable as Alec feels right now, but they’re open. They’re staring up at him, wide open and full of love as well, and it’s just enough for him to admit something he’s been trying not to say out loud for months now.

“I don’t want to live like this anymore, Iz. I don’t.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs, swallowing once more past the lump that doesn’t seem like it’s leaving him anytime soon.

“Hiding? Lying to myself? Pushing… pushing me down? Scared to want things? Scared to… Living this… this half-life. I don’t want to do it anymore and I think…”

He pauses there, having to reach deep now, all the way to his fucking core just to be able to utter the words, “I think I might have found someone I want to live another way with.”

He actually can’t believe he just said that. Out loud. To someone who is conscious. But now that he did…

She smiles at him, like maybe that’s what she was waiting for him to say all along even though he didn’t even know he had those words in him to say. But the smile is there nonetheless, bleeding into her voice when she says, “So we’ll find you time.”

“How?” he asks, and the word, that one word, sounds more broken than probably anything else he’s ever spoken in his entire life.

“We get mom and dad off your back. We get you some space to figure you out,” she says like it’s just that easy. But before he can even ask her what her miraculous plan is, she’s looking back at Lydia.

Lydia is getting up.

Lydia is dropping to a knee in front of him as well, linking one hand in Izzy’s and one in Alec’s.

And then Lydia is saying, “Alec Lightwood, would you be my fake fiancé?”

He actually has to shut his eyes, half because he has no way of processing what’s happening here, and half to bite back the tears that sting because of what’s happening here.

“No,” he chokes out eventually. “I can’t… I won’t ask you to do that. Either one of you.”

When he opens his eyes again they’re both smiling at him. Beaming, actually, as Lydia squeezes his hand tighter and says, “You’re not asking. We’re offering.”

“Forcing, even,” Izzy says as she squeezes his wrist tighter like neither one of them is planning on letting him go anytime soon and he can’t…

Alec can’t.

“Why?” he asks, and it’s a sob, plain and simple. The word is a fucking sob, one he can’t even find the will to be embarrassed by.

“Why what?” Lydia asks.

“Why are you guys doing this?”

They actually laugh when they look at each other this time, like there’s something inherently funny in what Alec is saying.

“Because we love you, you moron,” Izzy replies. “Because you’ve spent your entire life taking care of me, and I’ve finally found a way that I can help take care of you and so I’m fucking taking it.”

He looks to Lydia then, unable to really think about what his sister just said, writing her words off to the fact that she’s crazy, always has been, but Lydia?

Lydia’s smile is a little less manic, but it’s no less genuine when she says, “Remember when I got food poisoning, that time when Izzy was at that conference in California? You spent every single minute you weren’t at the rink at my place, holding my hair back while I puked for three straight days.”

She pulls Alec’s hand to her mouth at that so she can kiss the back of it. “You’re not even my boyfriend and you’re the second best significant other I’ve ever had. Izzy is right, it’s time for you to let someone else take care of you for a change.”

“Not permanently,” Izzy interrupts with a laugh. “You don’t get to really marry her.”

“And I get to keep the ring,” Lydia butts in excitedly. “And, forewarning, it’s going to be expensive.”

“And you have to win the Cup,” Izzy counters.

“Yeah. I want to be able to tell everyone that my ex-fiancé has his name on the Stanley Cup.”

“And one other thing,” Izzy says, and Alec is so fucking dizzy right now he can barely get the word, “What?” between his lips.

She rises up at that, high enough so that she can reach his face, brush her thumb gently over his cheek when she says, “You have to tell Magnus what you told us. About wanting to live another way with him.”

“How… how do you know it’s Magnus?” he stutters, but Izzy and Lydia just look at each other again and laugh. Which he might find insulting if they weren’t currently saving his life like actual fucking superheroes.

“I only wanted you to ask him out for drinks,” she says by way of answering as she gets all the way to her feet so she can lean down and plant a kiss on Alec’s cheek before whispering the words, “But this sounds a lot better,” directly into his ear.

Alec doesn’t know what to say in response to any of this, so for a few minutes, he doesn’t say anything at all.  
  
Eventually, he settles down enough inside to speak, which leads to a few hours of discussion about the logistics of their new arrangement. And as he walks out the door afterwards, full of strawberry cake and fucking promise, the fault line becomes a continental rift. There’s water there, though. Ocean. And Alec feels like he’s fucking floating in it.  
  
He wants to call Magnus, wants to show up at his hotel room, pound on the door and just, like, hold him. Tell him everything, every fucking bit of everything and then…  
  
Then.  
  
But it’s late. Inappropriately late. And besides, this is something Alec needs to plan.  
  
There are words he needs to say, truths he needs to tell, and Alec has never done anything even remotely like this before and so there’s no way he can walk in there blind at three o’clock in the morning so he goes home.  
  
It’s not to sleep, though. It’s to plan. To dream, with his eyes wide fucking open as he counts down the hours until it’s late enough or early enough or whatever the hell enough to go to him.  
  
He makes it to his room eventually. And he hasn’t been in it since he left for the gym this morning, which is why he almost expects to see Magnus, still asleep in his bed.

He stares at the mattress for a long time, the way the blankets are still up from how they’d laid on top of them, or how the throw is balled up on Magnus’ side. And something not unlike a fucking tidal wave washes over him when he thinks those words.

Magnus’ side.

He climbs into bed fully clothed, just like he’d done last night. And it’s not the most comfortable thing, lying down in his clothes. But as he curls onto his side, mimicking his pose of earlier, the jeans and tee he’d changed into when he came home to pick up Izzy’s cake are the absolute last things on his mind.

He runs his hand absently over the blankets in front of him, pulls the pillow Magnus had been using to his face so he can breathe it in, the faint hint of his scent. And it’s overwhelming but it’s also, like, so incredibly settling that he can’t seem to make sense of it.

He doesn’t need to, though. He doesn’t need to make sense of anything outside the fact that he’s ready now. That after twenty-three years of living for everyone else, Alec is actually ready to live for himself.

With Magnus.  
  
Not later.  
  
_Now_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was only supposed to be one chapter left but there was just too much going on in it, so I decided to break it into two, give the plot some room to breathe. Which means we still have another chapter after this one. Hope you guys enjoy this! Also, if you didn't catch the update about a week or so ago, make sure you read chapter nine before you read this one.

When Magnus changed Cat’s ringtone as a gag the last time he saw her, he never considered the existential ramifications of being awoken at six a.m. by the words, “I like big butts and I cannot lie.”

 

His soul is bleeding.

 

“Isn’t it still nighttime where you are?” he groans, half into the phone and half into the pillow shoved so hard against his face it’s practically in his mouth.

 

“What’s your point?”

 

“My point, dearest Catarina, is that nothing could possibly be important enough for you to be awake and at work this early on a holiday.”

 

A jolt runs through his body when he says that. It’s feeble, not enough to get him moving but enough to get him _worried_ about whatever catastrophe is about to befall him. Concerns that are not lessened one iota when she replies, “I wanted to give you my condolences.”

 

His heart rams firmly into the back of his throat, only retreating to its proper place in his chest when she adds, “On the engagement.”

 

“If you’re talking about Prince Harry, I gave up on him when he started dating the girl from that basic cable show about lawyers. He can do as he pleases now.”

 

“I’m not talking about your weird obsession with British royalty. I’m talking about your man tree. Lightwood? Isn’t he the one you wanted to play Hide the Pickle with?”

 

One and a half hours of alcohol-sweat soaked sleep is nowhere near enough for this conversation.

 

“Catarina, as I am fairly certain that I am still drunk,” he says as he rolls achingly onto his back, “and that I now have a gold-plated liver thanks to Raphael’s insistence on shot-ing down a whole bottle of Goldschläger last night, you are going to have to be decidedly less _you_ right now.”

 

“Alec,” she replies with a dramatic sigh. “He’s engaged, Magnus. The team just put out an official press release. And I... I wanted to be your friend.”

 

“Oh,” he says, which is essentially the only word left in his vocabulary at the moment outside of incoherent shrieking.

 

“I’m sorry. I thought you already knew.”

 

He would not be able to help the bitter laugh that escapes him even if he tried.

 

“And why would I know? I only spent the night before last in bed with the man. Is that supposed to grant me some sort of privilege in knowing about his major life decisions?”

 

“Magnus,” she says with so much care it makes him want to vomit.

 

“It’s fine, Cat. Just call me Magnus Bane: Perpetual Last One to Know Everything in Existence.”

 

He hangs up what is probably perceived as angrily from Cat’s end, but he doesn’t feel like worrying about that right now. It’s the rest of his life crashing around his ankles with which he’s concerned.

 

In spite of the way every muscle in his body screams at him in choral unison, he tumbles out of bed and all but flings himself into a shower hot enough to scald his skin. The steam so overpowering that the bathroom’s fan can’t displace it quickly enough, making the whole scene reminiscent of some low rate horror movie. Like REDRUM is going to be scrawled in the mirror when he gets out.

 

_If_ he gets out. He may just stay in here until he shrivels up into a man-shaped prune. He could join the circus. Become a local attraction, beloved by children all over the globe. They’ll come from miles around, in fact, to see the Magnificent Prune Man, and he’ll never have to worry about the stabbing pains of heartbreak ever again.

 

Alec is engaged. Alec “Not Now” Lightwood is engaged. To be _married._ To somebody else. Twenty-six hours ago, he was asking Magnus to stay with him, and now...

 

His phone buzzes an incoming text as he’s frantically trying to brush the taste of last night from his mouth, the mirror dripping in front of him from where he’d dragged a hand hastily through the condensation. And even before he looks at it, his instincts tell him the text is from Alec.

 

Instincts, crushing dread sinking nausea in his stomach, same difference, right?

_Let me know when you’re awake. We need to talk. It’s important_.

 

“Oh really?” he says derisively. To an inanimate object. Whilst dripping wet and stark naked in a bathroom double shifting as a sauna because that’s just the sort of morning he’s having.

 

“We need to talk, do we? The idea of you, actually talking to me about anything even remotely real or important is hilarious, Alexander. Funniest thing I’ve heard all month.”

 

He deletes the text without a second thought, taking all of Alec’s saved texts along with it - a string of often businesslike, grammatically perfect messages that he’d been saving out of a sense of sentimentality he really needs to lose. Doing the same to the three additional, similarly urgent texts he receives before he’s clean and presentable enough to leave his hotel because right now the four walls surrounding him feel like those of a tomb.

 

The Boyz II Men song he’d picked for Alec’s ringtone because he’s a sappy moron and a self-professed child of the 90s blares as he walks out the door, signaling that his dear captain has given up on text messages for the time being. But Magnus hits the reject button before his favorite boy band can get more than three words into their croon.

 

Alec is engaged. That’s just...

 

Originally, he had planned to do some sightseeing on this rare day off of his. Or, well, he’d really planned to sleep until noon, pig out on room service in his underwear and then try and see a few local attractions before it was time to get ready for the party.

 

Oh.

 

The party.

 

_At Alec’s_.

 

The point. He had a point. And that point was that sightseeing had at least been moderately on his agenda for the day so he does it. Because all he really wants right now is to get lost for a little while. The fifth time the Boyz that have become Men inform him that they’ll make love to him like he wants them to, though, Magnus almost throws his phone in the lake, melodrama be damned.

 

There are easier ways to stop the onslaught, of course. That’s why off buttons were created. But something about the image of Alec’s name flickering out as the cold waters of Lake Michigan fry his phone’s battery seems oddly satisfying right now.

 

He really needs to put those damn cat pictures on a computer. How else will he ever be able to make a dramatic gesture if he doesn’t?

 

“I meant me,” he hisses at the now-silent phone, forgetting he’s in public on a day when half the city is out buying last minute gifts for loved ones. Instead of slinking away from the gawking stares, though, he turns to the closest one and says proudly, “I meant he should do _me_ ,” because if he’s going to play the part of the raving lunatic, he might as well go Full Monty with it.

 

When he’d told Alec to do what was in his heart, he thought he’d made it clear that he was referring to himself. That he was in Alec’s heart and that Alec should just take the hint and _do him_ already. But either Alec is thicker than he imagined or, more likely, he’s just not that into him.

 

The short, elderly woman he just voiced his concerns to cares very little for them, judging by the pinched up look she gives him before she stalks off as if he just insulted pictures of her grandchildren.

 

He almost yells after her, “Babies are never cute! They always look like shriveled up old men and anyone that tells you otherwise is just trying to spare your feelings!” But he thinks better of it. Mostly because he is not a complete asshole. He just plays one on TV sometimes. Like when he’s breaking the nose of someone for harming the man he’s falling in love with.

 

Well, that was an unfortunate thought to have at a time like this.

 

Clearly, he needs a drink. Or twelve. _Stat_. And though there’s a very good chance he is still technically inebriated from last night, that is exactly what he shall have. Just no Goldschläger. Judging by his tastes in everything else, Magnus really should have known that his dear friend’s choice in alcohol would be abysmal as well.

 

He worries briefly about the prospects of finding an open bar this early in the day but then he remembers that it is a holiday. And nothing brings out sad drunks better than a dearly cherished holiday. That Magnus is now one of those sad drunks surprises him very little.

 

As the saying goes, this isn’t his first rodeo.

 

He wisens up and turns his phone off altogether when he enters the first mildly seedy establishment he comes across, reasoning that the only person who will try to call him other than Alec right now will be Catarina and she usually waits at least twenty-four hours before she worries about his untimely demise. And he can feel the muscles in his shoulders relax ever so slightly at the sight of the pitch-black screen.

 

“What can I get ya?” the bartender asks in his most bartendery voice, startling Magnus out of his brief respite of peace.

 

“Bourbon. The strongest you’ve got.”

 

The man nods and complies, raising a quizzical eyebrow when he returns.

 

“Aren’t you Magnus Bane?”

 

“The man, the myth, the legend, at your service,” he replies as he doffs a fake cap from his head and reaches out greedily for his drink.

 

“Havin’ a rough day?”

 

When he tips the glass up, his smile is so wide it hurts. “Having a rough life.”

 

“Well, bartenders are known for their listening skills.”

 

He laughs at that, imagining how this kindly gentleman might react to his particular story of woe.

 

_You see_ , he thinks, _I seem to have fallen head over heels for my captain. You might know him? Tall and surly, goes by the name Lightwood? We’ve almost made out a couple of times and I was dim enough to think that meant something, but as you and the whole city likely know by now, Mr. Lightwood is engaged to a woman that could probably beat me into unconsciousness inside of five minutes._

 

“I think my agent might frown upon me sharing some of the details,” he says instead because he’s not a complete _idiot_ either. “But thank you for the offer.”

 

“Well, I’m here if you need me, buddy. It’s the least I can do, seeing as how The Magic Eight Ball line might singlehandedly save this city.”

 

“Magic Eight Ball?” Magnus asks with mild curiosity.

 

“Yeah, that’s what everyone’s been calling you guys. You know, because you’re magical together and all you have left to do is sink the eight ball?”

 

“Clever,” he replies as the bartender makes a motion like he’s taking a shot in pool and smiles.

 

“If you bring a Cup here?” He whistles. “You guys are the best line I’ve seen in decades, and I’ve watched a lot of hockey. The chemistry... it’s just... unreal.”

 

He snorts at the man’s choice of words. “You’ve got that right.”

 

Is that what this has been? Unreal?

 

As the bartender takes his leave, Magnus’ thought drifts to the last time he saw Alec, to how he’d hugged Magnus in the concourse, held him like he was the last life preserver on the Titanic. At the time, he’d thought it meant something. He almost couldn’t calm his thoughts for the first hour or so of his time with Raphael, hence his agreement to the Liquor of Death, that’s how tightly wound he was. He just truly, honestly felt like that embrace _meant something_. And, now that he thinks of it, maybe it did.

 

Maybe it meant goodbye.

 

He looks up as he’s positing that particular morbid theory just in time to catch the tail end of the Sports section of the local news. There’s no sound on the TV, but he can clearly make out the closed captioning as footage rolls of last night’s game.

 

_After a night on which his team literally showed him all the love they could muster_ , the newscaster says as they cycle through the goal highlights from their commanding win against the Fliers, _Blackhawks Captain Alec Lightwood proposed to his longtime girlfriend, MMA fighter Lydia Branwell._

 

The footage switches to a shot of Alec and Lydia exiting their limo on the night of the charity ball, smiling and waving at the cameras. Magnus knows it was that night because he recognizes Alec’s jacket, off white brocade that he can still feel under his hands as they’d pressed against each other in the closet and... yeah... he’s going to need a lot more bourbon before this day is through.

 

Somewhere between his fourth and fifth drink, his anger at Alec morphs into more appropriate anger at himself. At how willfully blind he was this whole time, just like always.

 

The same exact thing happened with Camille. She’d been cheating on him for months and he simply refused to see what was right in front of his face. He just saw what he wanted, made up excuses for the parts that didn’t fit the story he was trying to tell himself and went on in blissful ignorance and here he’s done the _same thing_ all over again.

 

He should’ve kept the Venn diagram in his closet. Only instead of Beard/Bi/Both, he should have named it: “He’s interested in you,” “It’s all in your head,” with a cross-section of “Only when he’s drunk” in the middle.

 

How could he let this happen again? How could he be so stupid? How could he let himself get this deep without once bothering to take off the blinders and look at what was actually going on around him?

 

Alec and Lydia have _years_ of history together. Countless pictures in magazines, news footage of them smiling, laughing, loving each other. And what do he and Alec have? A handful of stolen moments, most of which occurred when Alec was stinking rotten drunk. And somehow Magnus allowed himself to believe that meant something.

 

He doesn’t turn his phone back on until he’s back safely in his hotel, thoroughly exhausted from all the self-recrimination. There are three more voicemails he deletes without listening to them and about a dozen or so increasingly worried texts from Alec that he skims at best. There’s even a note slid under his door, scrawled in Alec’s teenage penmanship:

 

_Where are you? Please call me. It’s Alec. Please call Alec._

 

He might find the letter charming, possibly even romantic if he didn’t know quite a bit better by now.

 

Since he still has a few hours until he has to face the music known as Alec Lightwood, he turns on the _West World_ marathon on HBO he’d scoped out last night, collapses fully clothed on his bed and shuts his eyes to the world. Hoping that at least in sleep, he can have a few hours of peace.

 

He should have known it was a pipe dream all along.

 

Usually dreams about Alec are a welcome occurrence. But on a day like today, nothing could be further from the truth. It’s nothing fancy, not even remotely NC-17, which almost makes it worse - the simple intimacy of it.

 

They were in Alec’s kitchen, early morning sun streaking off the lake. Magnus was sitting at the table he’s only ever seen used for food prep spillover, reading a newspaper while Alec busied himself at the stove, his feet bare, his hair an unruly mess, pillow creases denting his skin. And it had been short, and oh so very simple, but it leaves Magnus with a pit the size of the Grand Canyon in his stomach when his alarm wakes him up.

 

If he shuts his eyes tightly enough, he can still smell the bacon.

 

He’s been mulling over the party all day, at times convinced he would skip it altogether, at other times boldly considering calling the guy from the bar the other night - Chet or Chip or whatever his name was - and taking him along. Other people are bringing dates, significant others and whatnot, so there’s nothing to say that he can’t. But despite his wild fantasies, Magnus has known all along exactly what he would do:

 

Show up alone and proud, his head held high as if there is not a single thing wrong in the world.

 

It’s how he came into this city, it’s how he’s faced every single hurdle along his path, and he has no intention of letting up now.

 

None of which, of course, means that his heart isn’t pounding like a jackhammer as he stands outside Alec’s door, his fist raised to knock for a good minute at least before he’s able to put bone to wood.

 

“Why the hell are you knocking?” Jace asks when he opens the door, his eyes a bit irritated like he was expecting some sort of solicitor to greet him.

 

Magnus pinches his eyebrows together. “Because I was not raised in a barn?”

 

It wasn’t meant as a joke so much as an insult, but Jace laughs anyway because that’s what Jace does. Magnus is fairly certain, in fact, that someone could directly tell him that he is the most vile, obnoxious, hideously grotesque person they have ever met and Jace would still assume it was all just some elaborate prank and laugh it off.

 

It might be an admirable trait if attached to someone less cocky and abrasive.

 

“Well, get your ass in here then, Mr. Hoity-Toity,” he says as he grabs Magnus by his jacket and hauls him inside. Which is yet another thing that should be annoying but that, right now, is actually slightly welcome. Mostly because he is not entirely positive he would have been able to cross the threshold on his own today.

 

When Magnus sets his ridiculously expensive bottle of scotch on the table by the door so that he can get out of his jacket, Jace picks it up and whistles.

 

“This is the good shit, isn’t it?” he asks, holding the bottle up to the light so that he can properly examine it before Magnus yanks it from his fist.

 

“Yes, it is the good shit, and it’s not to share.”

 

Jace quirks an eyebrow at him and crosses his arms. “You need a whole bottle for yourself?”

 

“Given the way this conversation is going? Yes, I am going to go out on a limb and say that I will need an entire bottle to myself this evening.”

 

Something catches his eye when he says that, a small person, running into view before stopping at the end of the entryway, waving quickly at Magnus then disappearing once again.

 

He has to blink a few times before he can ask, “Does Alec have an illegitimate child that I don’t know about?”

 

Jace looks over his shoulder at the empty space where the child that looked the spitting image of Alec was just standing. “You talking about Max? That’s our brother.”

 

Something twists in Magnus’ gut when he replies, “Alec never mentioned a brother.”

 

Alec’s never mentioned a lot of things.

 

“Yeah, he doesn’t talk about him much. Kind of a touchy subject, given that we only get to see Max on holidays and spurts during summer break.”

 

Jace turns back around just in time to catch Magnus’ confused expression.

 

“Boarding school,” he elaborates. “In Vermont. The elder Lightwoods aren’t exactly big on raising their own kids, and since Alec is clearly too busy to play mother hen like he did with the Izmeister...”

 

Jace stops his explanation abruptly once Magnus is out of his jacket.

 

“Woah, dude, what the fuck are you wearing?”

 

“What I was told to wear,” Magnus replies as he looks down at his own chest. “An ugly sweater.”

 

“First of all?” Jace asks with a grin as he reaches out to run his fingers briefly over Magnus’ bicep. “That’s perfectly fitted black cashmere.”

 

“Do you see the piling?” Magnus asks in exasperation as he holds out the arm Jace had just touched without invitation. “I should have turned this into a rag years ago.”

 

“Whatever dude. Second and more importantly, this is an ugly sweater party.”

 

“And?”

 

“An ugly _holiday_ sweater party?” he asks as he points down at the atrocious sweater Magnus had been purposefully ignoring up until this point - bright red with sprigs of mistletoe sewn into the shape of a downward pointing arrow.

 

“Alec’s not going to let you in in that, no matter how smokin’ hot you look in it.”

 

Magnus sighs so deeply he feels it all the way in his toes. “Well then I guess I’ll just take my ridiculously expensive scotch and head home.”

 

Just as Magnus is about to retreat back into his jacket, Jace grabs his arm, opens the door, and drags him into the hallway.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up,” he says as he steers Magnus towards the elevator, the pair of them walking around in just their socks because Jace didn’t even give him a moment to put his shoes back on and because Jace is apparently not wearing socks as expensive as Magnus is.

 

“You know, one of these days you and I are going to have a discussion on when you’re allowed to touch me,” Magnus says as he yanks his arm away from Jace. He still follows him, though, which means he’s probably at least a little out of his mind right now.

 

“When’s that?” Jace asks as a grin presses wide across his face.

 

“Never. Unless I am on fire. And only then to wrap a blanket around me to smother said fire. And only _then_ if there is no one else around to do the smothering.”

 

In a clear indication of how little he is comprehending what Magnus is saying, Jace wraps an arm over his shoulders and laughs.

 

“See, this is why I love you, man. You’re fucking _hilarious_.”

 

“And you’re fucking obnoxious,” Magnus replies, but he only says it because he knows Jace will not take offense to it. Which is... odd. That Magnus seems to suddenly care about that.

 

Why didn’t he bring his bottle with him?

 

He’s never properly considered what Jace’s apartment might look like. Red leather couches probably snuck into thought at some point, glass accent furniture and a pool table in the dining room, that sort of thing. Which is why his eyes go a little wide when he steps inside.

 

“Question,” he says as Jace disappears back into his bedroom to presumably look for more hideous holiday sweaters and Magnus trails his eyes around a condo decorated so impeccably it looks like it belongs in a magazine. “Does your girlfriend live with you?”

 

“Yeah, when she’s not away at school,” Jace calls back. “Why?”

 

“No reason,” Magnus replies as his eyes land on a painting over the fire place that grips his attention so fully he can’t tear his eyes away.

 

“That painting is gorgeous. Is it by someone local?” he asks as Jace pads back into the room behind him.

 

“Yeah, Clary,” he says proudly.

 

Magnus furrows his brow when he turns to face Jace. “I thought she was studying to be a lawyer.”

 

“She’s a woman of _many_ talents,” Jace says as he grips Magnus’ shoulder and winks in a way that clearly indicates what kind of talents he’s referring to.

 

“Tell me something: Was Clary drunk when she first met you?”

 

Jace beams at him. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

 

The smile on Magnus’ face is surprisingly genuine. “Lucky guess.”

 

“Speaking of lucky, I have not only one but _two_ amazing options for you today,” he says as he holds up a pair of sweaters that almost make Magnus gag.

 

“We’ve got Frosty,” he says, holding out a green sweater with a patchwork quilt snowman on the front of it before switching sweaters. “Or Christmas tree lights.”

 

Magnus is about to choose the red sweater with the lights sewn to it until Jace drapes the sweater over his arm so that he can turn a switch hidden in a pocket on the side.

 

When the lights begin to twinkle, Magnus’ hand reaches out for Frosty so fast he almost gets a muscle cramp.

 

“I’ll take that,” Jace says once Magnus is finished removing his own sweater.

 

Magnus raises an eyebrow at him. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to make some sort of voodoo doll out of that?”

 

“Ha! No, man, it’s for my shrine. You can see it if you want. It’s pretty damn impressive.”

 

Magnus can’t tell if Jace is kidding or not, and furthermore he doesn’t really want to know, so he just smooths out the wrinkles in his tailored black on black pinstriped button up shirt as if he is apologizing to it and ducks his head into Jace’s sweater.

 

He has no idea why he’s doing this. Any of this, really. He’s pissed at Alec, even more pissed at himself, can’t stand Jace, and doesn’t even really want to go to this stupid holiday sweater party, he _swears._ And yet here he is, willingly wearing Jace’s clothing so he can what? Be the bigger man?

 

Why can’t he ever just be the smaller, pettier, pissier man?

 

He pokes his head free just in time to see Jace lowering his sweater from his face.

 

“Were you just smelling my sweater?” Magnus asks tightly as he pulls his arms into Jace’s Frosty disaster.

 

Jace stares back at him unblinkingly. “Yes. I was. And dude, it smells fucking _amazing._ What kind of cologne do you wear?”

 

Magnus snatches his sweater back and heads toward the door without speaking a single word.

 

“I can still smell it on my hands!” Jace calls after him before following him into the hall. “I wonder if I wipe my hands on my neck if it’ll stick. You know, like those samples in magazines?”

 

Magnus buries his face into his sweater in order to stifle the groan rattling his rib cage.

 

“C’mere and smell my neck,” Jace says as he pushes the up button outside the elevator. “Tell me if it stuck.”

 

“There is absolutely nothing in this world that would be able to get me to smell your neck,” Magnus replies with deadly seriousness. But all Jace does is smile because _all Jace does is smile_ , always, no matter what’s going on around him.

 

“That, my friend, sounds like a fucking challenge,” he says, missing the point yet again. But Magnus is simply too tired to fight the Jace Wayland current right now so instead he simply succumbs to its pull, allowing it to drag him unrelentingly downstream.

 

“You won’t regret this,” Jace continues once they’re inside the elevator. “Alec does this Seven Chilis of the World thing every year and... fuck, dude, it’s like the best chili you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

 

“I don’t like chili,” Magnus replies as he rests his head against the wall and shuts his eyes for what will undoubtedly be the last moment of even moderate peace he’s allowed this evening.

 

“Clearly you haven’t tasted Alec’s yet.”

 

Magnus can’t stop the snort that escapes him at that, nor can he help how bitter he sounds when he bites out the word, “Clearly.”

 

This is going to be a long night.

 

It starts a mere second or two after they walk through the door. Magnus is in the process of setting down his sweater so he can reclaim his prized bottle of hooch from the table where it was thankfully undisturbed when Alec bounds around the corner into the entryway.

 

He’s hugging Magnus a second later, sort of desperately. And Magnus is so thrown off by the whole thing that he actually raises his arms to hug Alec back before he remembers that he sort of wants to punch him in the face right now. Not that he ever actually would, especially considering half of his face still looks like raw meat.

 

“Max said that you were here but when I came to look for you, you were gone, and I just... I was worried sick about you.”

 

“I was only at Jace’s for a few minutes,” Magnus actually soothes, but only because Alec’s voice sounds legitimately panicked and, as he already established, Magnus isn’t a complete asshole. “Hardly enough time for him to murder me and turn me into a skin suit.”

 

“What? No,” Alec says as he pulls back from the hug. But he keeps his hands on Magnus still, gripped tightly over his shoulders in a way that makes Magnus squirm inside.

 

“Today, all day I mean. I’ve been calling you _all day_ , Magnus. Raphael said you took separate cabs home and no one has heard from you since. Where the hell have you been? I thought... fuck, I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere or something.”

 

“Oh,” he says, blinking a few times as he realizes that unlike Catarina, apparently Alec can’t even wait twenty-four hours without worrying about his untimely demise.

 

“I’m sorry,” he continues. Which he is, he supposes, a little bit at least. “I went out sightseeing today so I turned off my phone so I could have full immersion. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

 

_I just meant to avoid you_ , he thinks, but he’s not entirely sure that it would be helpful to voice that particular sentiment right now.

 

“It’s fine, I just... I’m just glad you’re okay. I wanted... I wanted to talk to you,” he says, lowering his voice and casting his eyes around as he says the last part as if he is making sure no one is listening in. “Can we... can we go some place? Private?”

 

Here we go.

 

“There really is no need, Alec. I have already heard about your engagement.”

 

Alec balks a little at that, letting go of Magnus’ shoulders finally so that he can hug his arms around his own stomach. “Oh. You did?”

 

“Yes. It’s the talk of the town, actually. Allow me to be the whatever number I am to say congratulations. Marriage is a wonderful institution,” he says as brightly as he can before adding, more quietly as an aside, “Not that I would know.”

 

“Magnus, you know that... I mean, you know it’s not...”

 

Dreading hearing Alec finish that sentence with something like _it’s not about you_ , Magnus takes his stammering as a chance to interrupt.

 

“It’s not a big deal is what it is. Honestly. I’m happy for you, Alec.”

 

“Magnus, I don’t think you’re getting this.”

 

“Actually, I think it’s pretty plain,” he says, trying and failing to bite down the agitation pushing against his ribs.

 

Alec leans in again at that. “Look, I really think we need to talk. Would you just come with me for a second?”

 

When Alec reaches out for him, Magnus backs off instinctively. But the flash of hurt that moves across Alec’s face isn’t enough to weaken his resolve.

 

“There’s nothing to talk about. It all makes perfect sense now.”

 

“Does it?” he asks, crossing his arms higher this time in defiance. “Because I think there are some things that maybe I need to clear up.”

 

“Everything seems pretty crystal from where I’m standing,” Magnus replies, mirroring Alec’s pose.

 

Something in either Magnus’ words or tone softens Alec though, so that his voice is almost pained when he says, “Magnus, _please_.”

 

This time when Alec reaches for him, Magnus actually takes his wrist and shoves it back at him.

 

“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Alec,” he snaps. “Can I just... will you just let me have that? Please?”

 

Alec looks as if Magnus just killed both his nonexistent puppy and kitten in one fell swoop. Which is funny considering Alec is the one who up and got engaged without breathing a single word of explanation.

 

“Of course,” he says, stepping aside to give Magnus a clear path out of the entryway.

 

He almost thanks him as he goes, but it seems as if he’s all out of words to speak to Alec right now, murdered fake pets or not. So he simply walks away.

 

It’s the first time he’s walked away because _he_ wanted to, but it doesn’t feel nearly as triumphant as he thought it would. Mostly it just feels like hell.

 

His next stop is the fridge. He likes his scotch chilled, but he’s not in the mood for the watering down of ice cubes tonight. When he enters the kitchen, though, he’s assaulted by the smell of Alec’s Seven Chilis of the World.

 

His mouth is watering instantly thanks to the four burners and three crockpots simmering before him.  And it strikes him that it’s probably for the best anyway that he won’t get to actually date Alec because judging by what he’s seen and smelled so far, he’d likely gain twenty pounds in their first week together.

 

Alec has set out cups for everyone because that’s just the type of host he is, and Magnus finds himself staring at the red plastic one put aside for him for an inappropriately long time.

 

The “A” in his name has been turned into a tiny, perfect Christmas tree because _of course_ Alec would do something endearing like that on a day like today. And it’s unsettling, just like everything else, as he fills the cup with scotch, screws the cap back on the bottle and grabs a sharpie from the bar so he can jot a quick note on the label before he puts it away:

 

_Property of Magnus Bane. Do not touch. That means you, Jace._

When he opens the fridge, the first thing he sees is the coffee cake Alec referenced in his note the other morning. In spite of the fact that he does quite like raspberries, Magnus had been too worried to even pause in the kitchen when he’d woken up to Alec’s absence. But he stares at it for a moment now in oddly deep contemplation.

 

He pulls off a piece out of curiosity and is not surprised in the slightest when the cake melts in his mouth in spite of who knows how many days trapped in a refrigerator. Despite the pleasant taste, though, all it serves to do is tighten the knot in Magnus’ stomach.

 

He takes out his wallet once the fridge is closed and pulls out the post it note Alec had left him, tracing his fingers briefly over the words like he’d done yesterday morning. At that time, they’d meant something more to him, like he could sense a deeper meaning hidden between the letters. But now he sees the truth of the message as clear as day.

 

_If you’re hungry, there’s food_. That’s all it ever meant.

 

He tears the yellow note into four equal pieces before he even gives himself a second to back out, dropping them into the trash before downing half of what’s in his cup in a single breath. The quick rush of alcohol giving him just enough courage to leave the relative safety of the empty kitchen and face whatever is on the other side of the door.

 

He’s rehashing last night’s game with Meliorn a short while later, purposefully not looking in anything remotely resembling Alec’s direction, when he feels someone tug on the back of his borrowed sweater. There’s no one there when he turns around, though. Or at least no one noticeable until the sweater-tugger clears his throat.

 

There’s a very serious look on Alec’s younger brother’s face when Magnus’ eyes trail down to where he’s standing. So he calls up his sweetest look-at-that-adorable-baby-in-the-stroller voice and says, “Well, hello there, tiny person.”

 

He is, perhaps, drunk once again.

 

“I’m Max,” the tiny person says as he extends one tiny hand Magnus’ way, which Magnus immediately accepts.

 

“Pleased to meet you, Max. I’m Magnus.”

 

“Can I ask you a question, Magnus?” Max asks with the air of someone far older than him.

 

The question makes Magnus’ stomach twist, as if he legitimately thinks this little boy is going to ask something like _why are you avoiding my brother_. When he looks to Meliorn for assistance, though, his temporary center is already long gone, leaving Magnus alone with the youngest Lightwood and his unsettling inquiry.

 

“Sure,” Magnus replies with a feigned smile and an ever-widening pit in his gut. “Ask away.”

 

Max nods, his lips pursed together like he has to think long and hard about his next words before he says, “Do you prefer to shoot from your forehand or your backhand?”

 

Huh. That was decidedly less invasive than he was expecting.

 

“Because most players would say they prefer their forehand,” Max continues. “But statistically, more of your shots come off your backhand.”

 

Magnus shakes his head lightly in an attempt to get on the same wavelength as Max before crouching down so he can look the child in the eye.

 

“I suppose I prefer my forehand as well,” he explains, giving the question more consideration than it probably needs. “But a few years after I joined the league, opponents started realizing how effective I was in that regard, so they changed the way they defended me.”

 

“So you adapted,” Max says with an oddly adult, sage-like nod.

 

“You could say that, yes. I was unaware that the statistics played out in that direction, but it’s likely due to necessity more than anything. Adapt to survive, as the saying goes.”

 

Max nods again. “What about goalies? Do you prefer to shoot stick side or glove side?”

 

Magnus finds himself smiling in spite of everything that’s gone on today. “What do the stats say?”

 

Max smiles as well. Just a small one, barely there, but Magnus is able to catch it before his expression returns to the businesslike one of before. “It seems like an even split, from what I can gather. But it’s not really a statistic that’s clearly kept.”

 

It’s Magnus’ turn to nod. “Well in that case, I’ll let you in on a little secret: Stick or glove side is entirely situational.”

 

Max tilts his head to the side in the international sign of confused intrigue.

 

“It depends on the goalie,” he elaborates. “Take Simon, for instance. When I was with Winnipeg, every time I played against Simon I tried to shoot stick side. Because while his stick is very good, his glove is nearly unbeatable.”

 

“So you have to do your research,” Max says, his smile more noticeable this time, like he and Magnus have finally found common ground.

 

Magnus actually winks back at him. “Research is terribly important for any hockey player. But I suspect you already knew that, growing up alongside Al-... your brothers.”

 

“Jace doesn’t really care about this stuff, but Alec and I talk stats all the time,” Max replies, sounding his age for the first time all conversation. And Magnus has to stop himself from imagining those conversations - Alec and his small doppelgänger, excitedly geeking out over minute statistics - because the warmth it presses through his bloodstream is not very helpful right now.

 

“What about location?” Max asks. “Do you prefer shots from the point, or do you like to stay in the slot?”

 

Magnus sighs lightly and asks, “Do you mind if we find a place to sit? You are by far the shortest reporter I’ve ever met and I’m not sure how long I can hold this position.”

 

As if in response to his own request, his knees make an uncomfortable popping sound when Max nods and Magnus rises to a standing position.

 

They settle at the high bar table in the corner of Alec’s living room, likely placed for casual dinners with his girlfriend (fiancé), a thought that makes Magnus down the rest of the contents of his plastic cup before Max continues his interview.

 

The questions become more personal as their conversation continues, leading eventually to such inquiries as, “What’s your favorite pre-game meal?” and, “Do you go number two before or after a big game?” And Magnus is not sure why he’s still here, answering every question tossed his way, but for some reason he just is.

 

He’d blame Alec if he were allowing himself to think about Alec right now.

 

Jace approaches the table eventually, his face a mask of fake concern as he says, “I heard there was an escaped panda somewhere at this party. Have either of you seen it?”

 

Max is beaming when he looks up at Jace, his face finally that of a child before he reaches out and allows himself to be lifted into Jace’s arms, his legs wrapping around Jace’s stomach in what is apparently a family ritual Magnus learned about in Vegas.

 

“Oh no!” Jace shouts as he sends a quick wink Magnus’ way. “I’m being attacked by a giant panda! Somebody help me!”

 

He’s scampering off at that, carrying Max through the crowd of onlookers. And Magnus still dislikes him, honestly he does, but he has to admit he’s grateful for Jace’s timely interruption.

 

After talking about bowel movements, he was honestly afraid of where the conversation might be going.

 

He stands up a moment later, all relief flushing from his system when he turns around to see Alec standing behind him.

 

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Alec says quickly before Magnus can walk away. “Or, well, that’s a lie. Clearly I was standing here so I could eavesdrop. But I didn’t mean to intrude, I guess, is what I meant.”

 

Magnus stares blankly at Alec for a long moment before moving to walk away. Alec is grabbing his elbow a second later, though, sliding his hand slowly down until it is clasped loosely around Magnus’ wrist. A progression of movement Magnus trails with his eyes as his breath hitches in his chest.

 

Why is he doing this? He made his choice. He picked _her_. Why can’t Alec just leave him alone?

 

“I need to use the rest room,” Magnus manages to choke out through the lump in his throat, his words causing Alec’s fingers to slip softly off Magnus’ wrist.

 

“Raphael just spent the last twenty minutes in the half bath,” Alec replies, his voice cold, dead almost, a direct match to the emptiness covering his face when Magnus finally gets up the courage to look at it. “It’s probably safer if you use the one in my room.”

 

Magnus nods and says a quick, “Thank you,” before walking away from Alec for the second time tonight.

 

Time two is no easier than time one was.

 

His head is swimming as he walks down the hall to Alec’s room, trying not to think of the last time he did this. Of Alec, draped over his body, braced by a shoulder Magnus had been willing to give him indefinitely if he needed it. If Alec needed his _support_.

 

It’s the kind of thing Magnus has offered to very few people over the course of his life for this exact reason. Because more often than not, when he’s reached his hand out, it’s been badly burned.

 

He still bears the scars from Camille, carved so deep into him they can no longer be seen from the surface. But with Alec, it is an open wound, fresh and bloody. The kind of thing that never closes properly so you just have to waste your entire savings on expensive bandages and cleaning solutions until the infection finally breaks free and he no longer has any idea what he’s saying. Thinking. Doing. So he walks, one foot in front of the other like always, because sometimes that’s simply the best you can do.

 

Keep moving when the world around you has turned to quicksand.

 

He’s lost in this state of thought, focusing only on forward movement, when he passes the guest bedroom and his attention is thoroughly derailed by a woman’s voice sneaking through the partially ajar door.

 

“Lightwood, you’re such a _tease_.”

 

That was Lydia, he is sure of it. And unless Alec has super human speed and somehow got in front of Magnus, she is in there with an entirely different Lightwood. One that is a _tease_.

 

Even though he knows politeness would dictate that he at least knock on the door before opening it, something surges up inside of Magnus so quickly that he’s bounding inside the room before his engrained sense of decorum can stop him.

 

The sight before him freezes him in place, as if someone has poured super glue through his veins.

 

It was Lydia’s voice after all, and she _is_ with a different Lightwood. Isabelle, to be precise. And, to put it bluntly, the pair of them are locked in some sort of intimate embrace. Hands up skirts and under sweaters, Isabelle’s lips pressed into the crook of Lydia’s neck, and Magnus is fairly certain that his brain short circuits entirely for a moment.

 

“Magnus,” Isabelle says once she notices his presence, her voice shocked but in a way that feels odd to him. It’s enough to jar the glue loose, though, which is why he’s speaking before she can even attempt an explanation for her actions.

 

“Don’t Magnus me,” he says, mimicking the tone of every scolding he received when a child. “How dare you, you… you _hussies_.”

 

Isabelle squints her eyes at him and tips her head, which is an odd response. But it’s not odd enough to stop Magnus now that he’s on a roll.

 

“You’re his blood, Isabelle,” he says accusingly before turning to Lydia, “And _you_.”

 

She raises one perfect eyebrow at him.

 

“The kindest, most wonderful man in the world just proposed to you and here you are, less than twenty-four hours later… _canoodling_ with his sister. You should be ashamed of yourself. Both of you.”

 

Magnus storms out of the room at that, slamming the door in his wake, his feet carrying him in a direction his mind hasn’t caught up to until he sees him. Alec. His apparent destination on the far side of the living room.

 

Alec is trapped in a conversation with Raj, looking mildly miserable as Raj seemingly inches him closer to the mistletoe Jace surely hung because something so forward could never have been placed there by Alec. And Magnus knows that he’s being rude again, but he can’t seem to stop himself from stalking over to Alec and gripping him tightly by the wrist.

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he lies, “but we need to talk.” And with that, he is dragging Alec away from a very disappointed Raj.

 

The door to the guest bedroom is still closed, and Magnus wonders briefly what they’re doing back there. If they’re crying over being caught in the act of betraying the most amazing man Magnus has ever known, or if their lusting thoughts have caused them to reinitiate their betrayal, regardless of the consequences.

 

Magnus feels ill just thinking of them.

 

He shoves Alec through his own bedroom door a moment later, closing it behind them before grabbing Alec by the shoulders and steering him toward the bed.

 

“I think you should sit,” he says before he realizes that he is about to sit Alec _on a bed_. The thought of that rising up the back of Magnus’ throat, practically choking out his breath before he course-corrects with, “But leaning is just as good.”

 

He maneuvers Alec across the room and turns him around so he can forcibly prop him up against his matte black, probably from IKEA, _why is he so cheap_ dresser. Once he’s there, safely braced against a piece of furniture hopefully sturdy enough to keep him upright in the face of tragic news, Magnus pats his hands briefly against Alec’s chest to silently ask him to _stay_ before backing six steps away from him.  

 

“It gives me no pleasure to say this,” he lies again as he takes in the single squinted eye Alec is shooting his way. A perfect tonal match to his arms, now crossed over his chest, like now that Magnus is the one that wants to talk somehow Alec is put out by the whole notion.

 

“But as your friend, I feel it is my duty to tell you that I just saw your sister and your fiancé in a... compromising position.”

 

Alec blinks a few times and crosses his arms slightly tighter. “Okay.”

 

“I don’t think you’re understanding me, Alec,” Magnus replies in the most soothing, _friendly_ voice he owns. “They were together. As in... _sexually_.”

 

“Yeah,” Alec says, raising both eyebrows and dragging the word out to at least three, if not four syllables. “I got that part. I just don’t see what that has to do with… Wait, Max didn’t see them, did he? Because I don’t think anyone has told him about the birds and the bees yet, much less the birds and the birds.”

 

Now, it is Magnus’ turn to blink.

 

“Why aren’t you upset about this?”

 

“Well, they are dating, so I pretty much assume stuff like that happens pretty often. I’d prefer it didn’t happen in my apartment, but that’s not really the point.”

 

Magnus… was not expecting that.

 

“Look, Alec,” he says cautiously. “I’m the last person to judge. Believe me. I was even in a three-way relationship once, for a brief time. But I don’t… I don’t think you’re supposed to be in one with your _sister_.”

 

Alec’s expression caves in on itself. “Ew, Magnus, gross. I’m not dating my sister or Lydia. I’m gay.”

 

Magnus was not expecting that either.

 

“How gay?” he blurts out. And he knows it’s an awful, even insulting question. If Alec had meant to identify as something else, he would have said it. But it’s at least better than the _since when_ that almost slipped out instead.

 

Magnus is so turned around right now that he’s seemingly become some Right Wing, Fox News watching, cable-television-and-pop-music-made-my-son-gay parent.

 

“What do you mean _how gay_?” Alec asks a little incredulously, which is exactly how someone should react to a question like that. “One hundred percent, super fucking gay. Magnus, I thought… I thought you knew that already.”

 

“And how exactly would I know that, Alec?” he asks, his voice coming out pinched from the near desperation saturating his entire system.

 

Alec shrugs. “I don’t know, the same way everybody else does?”

 

A groan escapes Magnus’ mouth as he tips his head down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please define the term _everybody_.”

 

“Well, not the whole _world_ , obviously. But, you know, like the team.”

 

Magnus looks up again. “The team?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“The _whole_ team?”

 

“I never took a poll or anything but yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s common knowledge in the locker room.”

 

Magnus can’t… well, Magnus can’t really do much of _anything_ right now. It’s all he can do to keep breathing, in fact, as a thought strikes him out of the clear blue.

 

“Raphael?” he asks with a hint of betrayal in his voice.

 

Alec laughs derisively and rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, that fucker knows plenty. You should see the gifts he gets me on holidays. I used to ask Jace what they were for, but I was so creeped out I stopped asking. Now I just pitch the gifts without even opening them.”

 

Oh. He’s talking about sex toys. Magnus is in Alec’s bedroom, with Alec, and Alec is talking about sex toys. He is nowhere near drunk enough for this.

 

“Can you take that off please?” he asks weakly as he raises his hands so he can dig his fingers into his temples.

 

“What?”

 

“ _That_ ,” he reiterates, waving absently at the atrocity adorning Alec’s chest. “I cannot have a conversation that includes, however tangentially, the topic of sex toys with a man in a reindeer sweater.”

 

“Fine,” Alec blurts out in a sort of pissy tone. “Only if you take yours off, too.”

 

“Oh, gladly!” Magnus exclaims, adopting the same bitter tone. “This one smells like moth balls and Axe body spray.”

 

The world goes dark momentarily inside Jace’s sweater, but even when he’s free of the beast, he still feels like he’s lost in a pitch-black room, feeling his way around so as not to break any bones on misplaced furniture.

 

“Why did you propose to her?” he asks almost helplessly as he stares at the green fuzzies still stuck to Alec’s Black T-Shirt Number 87. “If you are, as you say, one hundred percent, super fucking gay, why do it?”

 

Alec squirms a little, like the presence of honesty in the room is making his skin crawl. And he gets it, really he does. Alec has never been the most forthcoming person Magnus has known, so the truth must work like an allergic reaction with him. But there are times for skirting issues and there are times for brutal honesty, and this moment is the latter whether Alec wants it to be or not.

 

“Technically, she proposed to me,” he says. “And she did it to help me get my parents off my back. To help me buy some time.”

 

“Time for what?”

 

He shrugs again, his eyes darting around so that they’re landing anywhere but on Magnus’ face. “To finish the season? To maybe win a Cup? And to… to figure you out.”

 

Magnus balks a little at that. “Figure me out? What is that supposed to mean?”

 

Alec looks at him then, really _looks_ at him, but instead of answering Magnus’ question, he posits one of his own.

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

Magnus crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?”

 

“It’s a simple question, Magnus. What do you want from me?”

 

He lets Alec’s words hang in the air, lets them sink down into his own bones as he considers the next words out of his mouth very carefully. Landing eventually on honesty himself because if he’s expecting it from Alec, the least he can do is join him in the trench.

 

“I want you to want to kiss me when you’re sober,” he starts, his voice quiet, like all the strength has been sapped from it. “I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up with you still there, not beating the crap out of some punching bag because you’re… I don’t know, because you’re pissed at yourself for spending the night with me.”

 

“Woah, that is _not_ why I was doing it,” Alec says with more passion than he’s exhibited thus far.

 

Now it is Magnus’ turn to shrug. “Then why?”

 

“Because, Magnus. Because I woke up to you looking… looking fucking _perfect_. With your makeup all smeared and wearing my fucking shirt.”

 

“I was wearing your shirt?”

 

“Yeah, the one I gave you in Nashville. Remember?”

 

Magnus does remember the shirt, but he does not remember putting it on that night. And now he feels even worse about Chip or Chet – that he let some stranger anywhere near something that once belonged to Alec.

 

“I woke up, though, and you were so perfect, and all I wanted to do was…”

 

“Was what?” Magnus asks when it becomes clear that Alec isn’t planning on finishing that sentence.

 

His eyes look like they’re burning when they turn back to Magnus, his voice rough and low when he says, “You know damn well what I wanted to do. I think you’ve known ever since the charity ball.”

 

Magnus’ throat goes dry immediately, but he still forces himself to speak because he needs to know.

 

“So why didn’t you?”

 

“Because I thought my life was about to collapse,” Alec says, the heat dissipating from his voice, being replaced by a form of resignation that makes the pit in Magnus’ stomach swell.

 

“I wasn’t going to ask Lydia to marry me, not after all she and Izzy had done for me all these years, and my parents weren’t going to let up so I thought… I thought I was going to have to tell them. That I’m gay. And then I’d be shame traded to Columbus and shit, Magnus, I just needed to punch something.”

 

He looks at Magnus for what feels like an eternity but what is actually little more than a second or two before adding, more quietly, “I want you, Magnus. Outside of hockey, I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my entire life. But fuck it if you don’t scare the absolute shit out of me.”

 

“Why?” Magnus asks in a tone that is more moan than speech as he tries and fails not to zero in on Alec’s admission that he wants him.

 

Badly.

 

Alec chews on his lip briefly before saying with something similar to physical pain in his voice, “Because what if you didn’t want me back?”

 

Magnus actually laughs at that, because truly, how could Alec possibly think something so ridiculous?

 

“I was begging you to kiss me in Vegas, Alec,” he says to temper the way Alec seems offended by his outburst. “And I don’t beg.”

 

“I know you wanted to kiss me or screw me or whatever, but what then? What about the next morning? Or the one after that? I know me, Magnus. I know how I feel. And I know that if I start something with you, I won’t… I won’t be able to stop. That’s why I couldn’t chance it, why I couldn’t just be a one night stand with you. It’s too big of a risk for the team and for… for me.”

 

Magnus takes two measured steps towards Alec and practically pleads, “What in the world makes you think that’s all I want from you?”

 

He shrugs, digging his toe into the carpet and casting his eyes to the ground before saying, “Past experience? No one has ever wanted me for more than one night before.”

 

Magnus finds that incredibly difficult to believe. But it doesn’t matter if he believes it, what matters is that Alec _does_. And he’s about to ask him why when he realizes it would be pointless.

 

The sun can’t see itself. It doesn’t know what it is, how brightly it shines.

 

So instead he says, “You scare me, too,” because he does. More than Magnus realized until this very moment.

 

The _who, me?_ expression on Alec’s face when he looks up again is priceless.

 

“Do you think I wanted to have feelings for you?” Magnus continues. “That my first thought when coming here was, _hey, I know what I’ll do, I’ll fall for the giant, prickly, **captain of my new team**_?”

 

Alec stares at him in utter silence.

 

“I wasn’t looking for this with _anyone,_ Alec. I’ve loved exactly one person in my life and not only did she spend years systematically feeding my heart through a meat grinder but, oh yeah, she had me outed on national television for shits and giggles.”

 

The look of abject anger that flashes across Alec’s face would be sweet if it weren’t so entirely beside the point.

 

“I didn’t want to have feelings for you, but you’re a black hole, Alexander. Gravitational pull. You suck in everything around you, and you just don’t see it.”

 

“What are you talking about?” he asks quietly.

 

“Okay, for example, your sister. Do you know the impression I got of her the first night we met? When she came to talk to me after you blew up in the locker room?”

 

Alec shakes his head.

 

“That she would kill for you, Alec. Literally. All you’d have to do is point at someone and they’d be dead, mafia-style. And Lydia. She does not strike me as the type of woman that would care if the whole world knew she were dating Isabelle, and yet she _proposed_ to you, to help you.”

 

Alec squirms where he’s leaning and drags his eyes back to the floor, but Magnus just keeps going.

 

“And don’t even get me started on Jace. I’m pretty sure he’d give you a full body transplant if you were in some sort of freak accident and only your brain survived. Not to mention the team full of guys out there that would walk through fire for you. And me…”

 

Alec’s eyes snap up to Magnus’ face instantly. And it makes Magnus have to swallow a few hard times before he can complete his thought.

 

“I’d do anything for you,” he says with complete honesty. “I’ve only known you a few months and already, I’d do anything for you. When I saw you on the ice, bleeding…”

 

He trails off again, feeling the terror inch its way back up his throat like he’s right in it again, watching the hit, seeing Alec go down…

 

“ _Anything_ , Alec. So yes,” he manages to say through the slowly subsiding terror. “You scare the shit out of me, too.”

 

He shrugs helplessly at that and adds, “But I’m still here,” because he is. And even if he knew how to leave, he’s not sure he’d ever want to.

 

There’s a new look on Alec’s face now, one that seems to indicate some great struggle going on inside of him, pulling him in opposite directions. And so Magnus decides to make it as easy on him as possible.

 

“What if I told you that I want more,” he says levelly. “If I could guarantee _right now_ that I will want you for far more than one night. Would you believe me?”

 

The look is still on his face, but Alec is able to push a quiet, “I’d try,” through his lips. And that’s it for Magnus. That’s the end of the talking. He’s spent enough damn time _talking_ and he’s simply sick of it. _Done with it_.

 

Now is the time for action.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the crappy cliffhanger. It was the only logical spot I could find to break the chapter. Don't hate me... *hides*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! This chapter wanted to be a total pain! It's out, though, finally! And, as usually happens with me, I lied and this is not the last chapter after all. There's still one more to go. I felt this story needed to end with Alec, so we'll see the end of it through his eyes in a little bit. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the conclusion of Magnus' point of view!

Magnus measures each step as if he’s crossing a minefield. There are only four left between he and Alec, but at some point his legs turned to lead weights only vaguely resembling legs and so the four might as well be four _thousand._

It’s like there’s a part of him unsure if he is actually ready for this. A possibility not helped by the way Alec carefully tracks every single step he takes. His eyes slightly wider than normal as he watches Magnus move to settle in front of him, his hands gripped so tight over the edge of the dresser his knuckles have gone stark white from the pressure.

 

He’s utterly motionless otherwise. Just his eyes move like he’s paralyzed everywhere else, a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi. And it makes Magnus’ heart lodge in his throat just like on the phone with Cat this morning, but the fear is different here. Sharper. More in focus like he is a deer as well. Like they’re both caught in the same high beams, just waiting for impact.

  
He reaches up once he’s close enough to do so, his breath all but useless stuck in his lungs as it is, and rests his palms over Alec’s cheeks like he’s done a dozen times before. This is different too, though. The comfort is different. Less _tell me how I can help you_ , more _please don’t run away from me now_.

  
_Just this once, please_ ** _stay_** _._

  
He takes a moment to gather his courage before he leans in and presses his lips to Alec’s. And it’s soft, chaste, barely more than a brush because it has to be. Magnus will offer - over and over again he will _offer_ \- but in the end, the decision must be Alec’s.

  
He can lay himself flat, arms spread wide and heart bleeding as many times as he wants. But if Alec can’t reach out, if he can’t _take_ , this will never work.

  
There’s a sharp intake of Alec’s breath when Magnus kisses him, but other than that he remains completely still, giving absolutely nothing away. And a heavy weight is settled in his chest already when he leans back and opens his eyes.

  
Alec looks down immediately, shuts his eyes like it’s Vegas all over again. Which is why Magnus’ voice shakes when he asks, “Are you all right?”

  
“Yeah,” Alec manages to grind out eventually through a voice seemingly full of ash. “I just... it’s just...”

  
He looks up then, but his eyes are no longer wide. No longer scared. In fact, they bear something that has now become familiar to Magnus, a dark intensity he’s only seen a few times off the ice. The day they met, the other night at the club. And so Magnus’ heart is pounding painfully against his ribs when Alec finishes his thought.

  
When he casts his eyes at Magnus’ lips, grits out the word, “Enough,” and _takes_.

  
His hand is cupped around the back of Magnus’ neck in a flash, dragging him back in. And if their first kiss was chaste, their second is so far from that it would need the Hubble telescope just to even _see_ chaste.

  
It’s raw, purposeful, _hungry_ , and it steals what little breath Magnus has left inside of an instant.

 

He’s grateful he has Alec’s strong, broad shoulders to hold onto right now, otherwise he’s fairly certain he’d be a puddle on the floor, that’s how hard the kiss hits him. His entire body going numb and lifeless instantaneously as all feeling zeroes in on his lips, his tongue, being all but assaulted by Alec’s.

 

On the next episode of _MythBusters_ : Can a person’s bones really turn to jelly in the face of sudden overstimulation? Tune in to find out!

 

It’s as if he’s holding on for life itself, his fingers gripped tightly over Alec’s shoulders, the heels of his palms pressed to collarbone. And it’s everything. This, right here, is _everything_ to him as he leans in and forms his body to Alec’s, caring very little for balance because the world started tipping on its axis the moment Alec kissed him anyhow. So if he is going to fall, there’s no direction in which he’d rather do it than deeper into Alec’s arms.

 

When Alec moves to his neck, a slight whimper escapes Magnus, causing his hands to reach up so they can cup Alec’s jaw, tip his head as he says the word, “ _No_.”

 

“Want… your lips,” he whines. And he might be embarrassed by the sound of his own voice if not for the way Alec moans into his mouth when their kiss is resumed, proving that for once, the pair of them are on the exact same page at the exact same time.

 

As if sensing Magnus’ perpetual lack of balance, one of Alec’s hands moves to the small of his back, the other one tangling in Magnus’ hair as he pulls Magnus closer in every way imaginable. And it is with that tug that feeling returns to the rest of his body in one sharp, hot flash like the edges of a hundred daggers being scraped along his skin.

 

There have been many moments in Magnus’ life where he has felt the rush of adrenaline, the push of exhilaration, saturating his body. But he is not positive if he has ever felt this tangibly _alive_ before in his twenty-seven years on this planet.

 

They move eventually, Alec using the hand still pressed into Magnus’ back to maneuver him, steer him backwards towards the bed. And he’s fairly certain he’d go anywhere with Alec right now, up to and including the seventh ring of hell, and yet the second the backs of his knees hit mattress he’s overtaken by a wave of terror so strong it feels as if it’s choking him.

 

He tumbles backwards, struggling for breath before Alec is on top of him, forming their bodies together once more as their lips find the momentum almost lost in the fall. And it’s like Alec is breathing for him now, like kissing him is the very air in Magnus’ lungs and if he stops he’ll die. Suffocate. Drown in his own tangled thoughts.

 

It’s too much. He thought he was prepared for this, assumed that if he ever got the chance to do this very thing, he’d be ready. But now that he’s here…

 

He doesn’t stop Alec when he moves away from his lips for the second time, half because miraculously oxygen has returned to his lungs and half because Alec has begun unbuttoning Magnus’ shirt so he can work his way downward. His lips soft as they press into Magnus’ flesh, covering seemingly every inch.

 

The sounds escaping Alec as he works skate the border of obscene, and for some reason they call to Magnus’ mind the image of those planes that fly over the beaches in California, carrying banners behind them. Only instead of _Marry me, Jennifer_ , or _Go Wildcats!_ , this one says: _Alec Lightwood likes the taste of your skin._

He would bathe daily in packets of Taco Bell hot sauce if it guaranteed Alec would makes these exact sounds every time he kisses him.

 

He’s thinking about that when Alec finally reaches the end of his expedition, his fingers wrapped over the waistband of Magnus’ pants. And something jars loose in Magnus’ mind at that, something Alec had said about one night stands. So despite the fact that he’s currently swept up in an unimaginable tidal wave, he’s still able to lift his head and groan Alec’s name.

 

_There i_ _s no rush_ , he wants to say. _We can take this slow_. But when he looks down into Alec’s eyes, still so dark as they turn up to him, his fingers already twisting around the buckle of Magnus’ belt, all coherent thought flees from him like shadows in direct sunlight.

 

Hell, if Alec wants to go from zero to Hide the Pickle in sixty seconds flat, who is Magnus to stop him?

 

He takes a deep breath, tries to get the oxygen to flow through his entire body, but it’s only shallow, just barely in his lungs. And it makes him think that maybe it’s better to just hold it, keep it in his lungs while he waits for what’s coming next. Only the thought is interrupted a moment later by the sound of a knock on Alec’s bedroom door.

 

They both freeze as Isabelle says from the other side, “Mom and dad are here to pick up Max and they’re asking to see the happy couple before they leave. I told them you were in the bathroom, so unless you want them to think you’ve got chronic diarrhea, I suggest you get your ass out here, big brother.”

 

Oh. Right. They are at a party, aren’t they? With their entire team. Somehow in the wave Magnus had completely forgotten they were not, in fact, the only two people left on the planet.

 

He pounds his head back into the mattress as Alec removes himself from the bed, his eyes full of apology when he says, “Rain check?” to Magnus’ wrung out form. And all he can do is nod in response, that’s how unbearably tired he is.

 

They only got to second base, and already Magnus feels like he needs a solid week of recuperation. How in the world is he supposed to survive anything further?

 

“Wait,” he manages to bite out before Alec opens the door, his hand reaching out blindly for one of the green sweaters they’d tossed onto the bed before throwing it Alec’s way.

 

“Thanks,” he says with a smile that… well, a smile that might actually kill Magnus, frankly. Ear to ear and simply _beaming_ before his face disappears into the sweater and Magnus is done. If he wasn’t sure of it before, he is now.

 

There might as well be a brand on his ass that says: Property of Alec Lightwood.

 

He’s still lying there a few minutes later, feeling the cool air on his bare chest and imagining what it had felt like to have Alec’s lips there instead when he realizes that there is somebody watching him.

 

Isabelle is still standing in the doorway when Magnus lifts to his elbows, her arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow raised as she stares back at where her brother had recently been debauching him.

 

“So, I guess he cleared things up finally, huh?” she says, her tone bored almost as Magnus rises to a full sitting position and begins to button his shirt back up.

 

“Yes, he did. And can I just say that I am deeply sorry for calling you a hussy.”

 

She shrugs. “I’ve been called worse. You ever call my girlfriend that again, though, and we’re going to have problems.”

 

He looks up at her with eyes that he hopes convey how very sincere he’s being when he says, “I would never dream of it. What you and Lydia are doing for Alec…”

 

She shrugs again, as if hiding her relationship with the woman she clearly loves and allowing said woman to be engaged to her brother is no big deal. “You know, Alec might be large, grumpy, and capable of putting a guy through the glass and into the fifth row with one hit, but on the inside, he’s softer than a newborn kitten.”

 

“Lost puppy giant,” Magnus mumbles as he finishes the final button on his shirt.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Never mind. You were saying?”

 

“I was _saying_ that if you hurt him, I will kill you, cut your body into pieces, and bury them across the desert. I hope you understand that.”

 

He sighs deeply at her words. “I would expect nothing less.”

 

There’s a slight smile playing on her lips when she squints her eyes at him and says, “You’re one of the good ones, aren’t you?”

 

A heaviness settles in his gut. “I hope so.”

 

She shakes her head. “Naw, I knew it the day I met you, when you took that hit for Alec, doing that press conference. Something tells me that I won’t have to be dismembering you anytime soon.”

 

“That would be preferable,” he says quietly, causing her to laugh.

 

“You and I are going to be great friends, Magnus. I can feel it already.”

 

“That would be lovely.”

 

“Damn right it would be lovely. I’m a _delight_. You’ll see,” she says before pulling herself off the doorjamb. “I’ll just… uh… leave you to it then.”

 

She’s about to close the door completely when she pushes it back open and says, “By the way, _canoodling_?”

 

The smile spreads across his lips of its own volition as he ducks his head shyly and says, “Yes. Apparently I channel my grandmother when I am upset.”

 

She laughs again, harder this time before saying, “Oh yeah, _great friends_ ,” and closing the door, enshrouding Magnus in silence.

 

He lies back on the bed once more, trying to Bea Arthur and baseball himself back to a resting position down below, his thoughts drifting eventually to the Lightwoods plural. And to the fact that, in spite of their severe lack of personal boundaries and the small one’s age appropriate fascination with fecal matter, he’s grown quite fond of them over the course of the last few hours.

 

Except Jace. But he’s not a real Lightwood, so he doesn’t count.

 

He rejoins the party just as the elder Lightwoods are leaving it. But he only has a moment to appreciate the sight of Alec exiting the entryway, his hand clasped in Lydia’s in a way that no longer inspires dread and misery within him, before the entire room literally erupts in raucous cheering.

  
  
It’s disorienting, but seemingly only for him and Alec.

 

“What the hell is going on?” Alec asks from across the room as Jace takes Lydia’s place at his side.

  
The smile on Jace’s face is prouder than Magnus has ever seen it when he clasps a hand on Alec’s shoulder and says, “You two assholes finally hooked up, that’s what’s going on.”

  
There’s laughter mixed in with the dying applause now, but Magnus simply stands where he is, motionless, wondering vaguely why this moment isn’t bothering him.

  
Alec’s cheeks flush at Jace’s words, his mouth hung open in a reply he can’t form as Jace calls out, “Who had Christmas Eve?”

  
“Oh, I did!” Simon says, raising his hand excitedly like a schoolboy looking for brownie points.

  
“Why is it that the only Jewish guy on the team picked Christmas?” Raphael says with dismay.

  
“What? You wanted me to pick Yom Kippur? You people have a plant specifically chosen to force people to kiss each other. It seemed like a safe bet.”

  
“There was a pool?” Alec finally spits out, his voice a bit higher pitched than normal as he glares down at where Jace is still beaming at his side.

  
“C’mon, dude,” Jace replies. “There’s always a pool.”

  
Alec looks like he’s going to murder someone, most likely Jace, while Simon and Raphael continue to argue, and it’s strange to Magnus, the way he’s feeling. How his stomach is completely settled, or how his lips are curling into a soft smile all on their own, because this should really _bother him_. An invasion of his privacy on this team-wide scale should, at the very least, make him feel uneasy. But as he leans against the wall at the end of the hallway and shoves his hands into his pockets, all he feels is relaxed.

  
That’s when it hits him, what he’s _really_ feeling: Safe. Magnus has actually never felt safer than he does right now, in this very room, with these very people. And that...

  
Well that’s something, isn’t it?

  
“I was freaking positive they did it in Vegas,” Raphael says petulantly before casting his eyes almost accusingly at Magnus. “It’s the damn Sin City. You couldn’t throw me a fucking bone?”

  
Magnus smiles and shrugs as if to say, _believe me, I tried_ , before Simon cuts in with a more succinct explanation of that night’s events.

  
“Well maybe if you didn’t pick a dumb ass fight with me, they would’ve had time to hook up.”  
  
  
Raphael growls before turning back to Simon. “There is literally no way a Jedi could take out an entire zombie horde.”

  
“Why can’t you just respect the power of the Force?” Simon shrieks and Magnus is laughing now. It’s low and quiet, but it’s so warm he wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket.

  
Alec doesn’t seem to be faring as well as he is, judging by the helpless look he’s casting Magnus’ way. So Magnus shrugs, removes one hand briefly from his pocket and blows Alec a kiss in front of their entire team, because when in Rome.

  
Something of the expression he’d worn when he left the bedroom flickers in Alec’s eyes before the agitation returns just in time for him to turn back to Jace.

  
“How do you even know we hooked up, huh? You ever think we were just talking in there?”

 

Jace makes a sputtering sound. “For one thing, you’re wearing my sweater, dipshit. So unless you were playing musical sweaters…”

 

Alec’s eyes slip down to the patchwork Frosty currently adorning his chest before Magnus looks down as well to the sweater he’d hastily put on before leaving Alec’s bedroom a few minutes ago. To the reindeer with its bright red nose, smiling up at him. And he really should’ve noticed the sweater was a better fit and that it possessed a far more pleasant aroma, but he forgives himself the slight because of the overwhelming nature of the last half hour.

 

“And for another,” Jace adds, “you’ve got beard burn on your upper lip from Magnus’ goatee.”

 

He reaches out to touch Alec’s lip at that, something that causes Alec to swat his hand away violently before saying, “You know what, Magnus was right. This thing does smell like moth balls and Axe body spray.”

 

Jace flinches backwards in appall, his voice sounding genuinely hurt when he says, “How dare you insinuate that I wear Axe body spray! You know what, give it back to me. You don’t deserve to wear it.”

 

He’s attempting to remove Alec’s sweater at that, something that Alec struggles mightily against. “Why are you always trying to get me naked?”

 

“Oh, like you ever need an excuse to take your shirt off. I’ve never seen anyone topless more often than you, dude. I’m surprised you even own shirts anymore.”

 

Alec continues to slap at Jace’s hands as he nearly shrieks, “I wouldn’t accept a full body transplant from you if you were the last body on the face of the earth.”

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

“You know exactly what that’s supposed to mean,” Alec replies, and the smile on Magnus’ lips only continues to deepen as he watches the pair of them struggle with Jace’s sweater across the room. His attention only mildly arrested when Isabelle comes up beside him, links her arm with his and rests her head softly on his shoulder.

 

“Welcome to the family,” she says almost dreamily, and Magnus is struck yet again by a revelation that sinks all the way into his marrow. The word _family_ cycling through his mind as he casts his eyes around the room at the various squabbles occurring around him.

 

This is his family. And not just in the hockey, _we’re all brothers on the ice_ way, but in the _real_ way. The dysfunctional, crazy drunken uncle, we’ve got each other’s backs no matter what happens, this episode was brought to you by the capital letter F, _Family_ way.

 

It’s the type of thing Magnus has dreamed of his entire life, but the type of thing he never really thought he’d get to have.

 

Lydia sidles up to his other side a moment later, mirroring Isabelle’s pose down to her head resting on his other shoulder. Her voice a little less ethereal as she says, “I’m surprised you hadn’t figured this all out before now. You seem like such a smart guy.”

 

Magnus smiles as Isabelle says, “Come on, Lyd, you know Alec has a tendency to make people stupid.”

 

“That he does,” Magnus replies as he watches Jace finally succeed in de-sweatering Alec, pulling it down over his arms like handcuffs in an old school hockey fight.

 

That he does.

 

Eventually, things settle back to what passes for normal with this group. But even as everyone takes their assigned places around the dinner table – the same ones from Thanksgiving by the looks of it – Magnus is still riding the high that formed like a second skin the moment Alec kissed him. It’s been changing ever since, slight shifts like the cells are rearranging themselves in different patterns, but every single one still feels like lightning pressing through his bones.

 

It’s surreal, the feeling, the night, _all of it_. And he’s not ashamed to admit he’s had to pinch himself a half dozen times at least to remind himself this is not, in fact, some elaborate dream or scotch-soaked hallucination.

 

It’s _real_. Alec kissing him was real. Alec wanting him _is real_. He awoke this morning to a world where Alec was set to marry someone else, and he will fall asleep in one where Alec is his. But his name wouldn’t be Magnus Bane if that thought didn’t call up within him a reciprocal paranoia.

 

Because he is him, the second he is allowed to think again, those thoughts flee to the corner of his brain responsible for producing all the painful _what ifs_ of his life as if he is some sort of abused pet incapable of recognizing an outstretched hand as anything other than a weapon.

 

Thank you, Camille, for that particular character quirk.

 

But while it is true that until this point, Alec has been a particularly wrenching form of whiplash, the fact remains that they have never taken it this far before. So despite being used to him pulling back, and despite the way he half expects it to happen again, there’s still a persistent voice in Magnus’ head reminding him of the _truth_.

 

The reality of this. Of them. Or at the very least, of what they could be.

 

Even still, when Alec takes his hand at the dinner table, Magnus assumes it’s to say grace. He’s about to grab Raphael’s hand, in fact, when he realizes that Alec hasn’t reached out to Lydia. That it’s just him. Just his hand. Just _their hands_ , clasped together atop the table for all to see. And something about that simple gesture settles him inside.

 

There is no way he is letting go of Alec’s hand until Alec himself takes the initiative. That’s already a foregone conclusion.

 

There are two things Magnus learns at dinner:

  
1) Alec’s chili really is amazing. Life-altering, even, like it has created a line of demarcation in Magnus’ existence before which he hated chili and after which he practically worships it.

  
2) Holding Alec’s hand atop the dinner table is far superior to tangling their legs beneath it.

  
These two realizations put him in such a pleasant mood that he decides to share his bottle of scotch with the rest of the team, passing it around the table for anyone that would like a taste and skipping more himself because he wants to remember this. He wants to be sober enough to remember _every single moment_ from this evening, this day, both bad and good. Because the bad, in the end, makes the good that much sweeter.

  
When the bottle makes its way around to Jace, he pulls out his phone and extends it to selfie distance, placing the bottle against his lips in such a way that Magnus’ handwritten message is clearly visible beside Jace’s triumphant smile.

 

Two days ago, something like that might have bothered him. Hell, two _hours_ ago it _did_. But so much has changed in such a short span of time that Magnus can only just go with it.

 

He’s saying goodbye to Raphael a while later as the party thins out, his body finally feeling the heaviness of the day as he stands in the entranceway and apologizes for backing out of his and Raph’s post-party plans.

 

“I’ll forgive you this time because it’s clear you’ve got… you know… other things to attend to,” Raph says with a wink that makes Magnus roll his eyes so hard they hurt, just like everything else.

 

“Thanks for telling me, by the way.”

 

“Telling you what?” Raphael asks with a smile that indicates how feigned his ignorance is.

 

“Oh, you know, that Alec was gay and that his relationship with Lydia was a complete sham.”

 

Raph claps a hand on Magnus’ shoulder and tugs him closer.

 

“Seriously, man, how did you not know? The dude spends half his time around you staring at your ass.”

 

Magnus raises an eyebrow at that before Raphael continues.

 

“Which, now that I think of it, is behind you. So it would make sense that you didn’t notice that little tic of his. But fuck, Mags, mom’s about as subtle as a train wreck. I’ve never known you to be so oblivious.”

 

“Speaking of things that aren’t subtle,” he says, bypassing the insult. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop giving ‘mom’ inappropriate gifts.”

 

Raphael grins, ducks his head and runs his free hand over the back of his neck. “He told you about those?”

 

Magnus just nods what he’s pretty sure is protectively. Or possibly _over_ protectively. But he’ll worry about that sentiment later.  

 

“You know, they might come in handy if,” Raphael starts to say, but Magnus quickly puts up a hand to stop him.

 

“Stop talking. They make him uncomfortable, Raph.”

 

“Ugh,” he groans. “You’re going to be that guy now, huh?”

 

“What guy?”

 

“The ‘be nice to my boyfriend or I’ll bust your nose’ guy. I thought that only applied to assholes like Sebastard.”

 

Magnus makes a face that indicates that this particular rule now applies to everyone, lifelong friend or not. But instead of acting pissy about it, Raphael just smiles.

 

“I’ll stop the gifts, but I can’t promise anything further in the way of being actually, you know, _nice_ to him. I still can’t stand the guy,” he says in what is very clearly a lie.

 

Magnus can practically see the fondness leaking out of Raphael’s eyeballs. But he’s a good enough friend not to mention that.

 

“Fair enough,” he says instead, reaching up to shake Raphael’s hand.

 

Raph squints at him, rolls his eyes, then drags Magnus in for a hug.

 

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he says, his voice quieter, more serious than before as he speaks right into Magnus’ ear. “The team is great at keeping secrets. We’ve got your back.”

 

He pulls back at that, resting his hands on Magnus’ shoulders before smiling and adding, “Raj might try and murder you in your sleep, but other than that… nothing to worry about.”

 

Magnus has no words in response to that, so he simply smiles.

 

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Raphael adds before letting Magnus go. “Tell nana and popsie I say hey.”

 

“I will. And merry Christmas to you, too.”

 

Raphael goes to leave at that, but before he can even turn the doorknob he turns around and says, “Oh, and tell Cat she owes me fifty bucks.”

 

Magnus groans. Deeply.

 

“What?” Raphael says. “You can’t tell me you’re actually surprised.”

 

“I’m not surprised you bet on this,” he says levelly. “I’m just surprised you won.”

 

“Oh ha ha, funny man. I had inside information on this one. I’ve never seen Captain I Hate the World look at anything but a puck the way he looks at you. Which, by the way, if you guys want to keep this under wraps, you might want to cut down on the longing stares when in public. Just saying.”

 

“You’re both assholes,” he says, referring to Raphael and Cat, his two dearest friends in the entire world.

 

“What? She’s the one that didn’t have faith in your ability to seal the deal.”

 

“Leave. Now. Please,” Magnus replies, causing Raphael to laugh.

 

“I’m going, I’m going.”

 

And with that, he’s gone.

 

The only people left in the apartment when Magnus exits the entryway are Alec and his immediate “family” – Isabelle, Lydia, Jace and Clary. As soon as he enters the room, though, they all get up to leave, making sputtering, mumbled conversation with giant smiles on their faces as they practically scurry for the door.

 

Isabelle kisses him on the cheek before she leaves, then Lydia, and then Clary, even though he’s not sure he’s ever spoken more than three words to her at once. And it feels good, warm and familiar almost, in a way that distracts Magnus so much that he doesn’t have time to escape what comes next.

 

The fourth cheek kiss, this time from Jace.

 

Magnus makes a gagging sound as he rubs furiously at the spot Jace just kissed, which only seems to make Jace’s smile deepen.

 

“What?” he asks. “You let the girls do it. It’d be sexist if I didn’t get to have a piece, too.”

 

“Am I on fire?” he asks miserably.

 

“Depends. Are we talking literally or figuratively? Because those pants are awfully tight,” Jace responds as he drags his eyes down Magnus’ body. And he should be aggravated, should want to shove Jace out of the room, but for some reason, his lips are twisting upwards like traitors.

 

“Ha! I just made you smile!” Jace exclaims triumphantly.

 

“No you didn’t.”

 

“Oh hell yes I _did_ ,” he says, reaching out to grab Magnus’ face so he can kiss his cheek again and this time, Magnus just goes with it. Whether it’s because he’s too tired to fight or simply that Jace has worn him down too much to resist is unclear.

 

“By the way, I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty,” Jace says as he backs up a few steps and lifts the corner of his sweater to expose another sweater underneath it.

 

Perfectly fitted black cashmere.

 

“And I’m taking the bottle, too,” he says before Magnus can reply, reaching out to grab what used to be Magnus’ expensive bottle of scotch from a nearby table. “Need all the shrine material I can get.”

 

“I hate you,” he says coolly.

 

“Aw, I love you too, buddy,” Jace replies before squeezing Magnus’ shoulder and heading for the door.

 

“I said hate!” Magnus calls after him, prompting him to turn around in the open doorway.

 

“Your voice said hate, but your heart said love,” he coos, backing into the hall and shutting the door before Magnus can even form a proper rebuttal, let alone speak it.

 

Jace is an asshole. But, for better or worse, he is apparently now Magnus’ asshole like some sort of stray cat you accidentally adopt by feeding it too much and you no longer have any choice but to let it inside because it simply won’t stop whining until you do.

 

It is one more thing for which he can blame Alec. But the list of good things far outweighs the list of bad at this present moment, so he is willing to overlook it.

 

When he once more exits the entryway, Alec has since vanished from his own living room, leaving Magnus draped in silence for the second time tonight. It’s not the same as the quiet of earlier, though, with Alec’s bedroom ceiling smooth and white above him and the feel of Alec’s body still a ghost on his skin.

 

It is all-consuming here, the kind of lack that burrows deep inside of you, making your ears burn. The silence found only in the absence of something treasured. And even though he knows Alec isn’t gone – that he is likely in the kitchen or the bathroom, something simple like that – his chest still aches.

 

It’s strange, being alone here. He has only been here a few times, but apart from the other night he has always been surrounded by his teammates. They are alone now, though, and Magnus isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. Because before, in the bedroom, it had been spur of the moment, an intense outpouring of something they’d both been repressing for months. But now?

 

What are they now?

 

Rather than allow his thoughts to spiral away from him, he turns his focus to the mess before him, searching out and stacking empty Solo cups and paper plates before setting them neatly on the bar table in the corner like he is acting out a particularly sad, adult version of an Easter egg hunt.

 

_Look, nana, I found another one! And this one smells like vodka and cranberry juice!_

He is about to laugh at that, the image of his grandmother slipping across his mind from countless Christian holidays she only tolerated because his grandfather was raised with them, when he hears a noise behind him, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Alec says quietly as if he’s afraid to disturb the silence that has become a physical presence in the room.

 

“I don’t mind,” Magnus replies, reaching for another cup.

 

Alec stops him, though, leaning down to rest a hand gently over Magnus’ wrist. “Jace still owes me from Vegas. The dirtier we leave this place, the more fun I’ll have tomorrow watching him play French maid. Think of it as providing Christmas cheer.”

 

Magnus smiles in a way that spreads throughout his entire body, loosening the band around his chest ever so slightly in the process.

 

The smile does something strange to Alec, making his touch falter as his lips part slightly and a faint blush washes over his cheekbones. But before Magnus can even react to it, Alec is continuing.

 

“Can you just get the lights over there?” he asks, his voice tighter now, just like his posture as he removes his hand from Magnus’ wrist so he can point to the other side of the room.   


Magnus nods and does as he’s asked, turning off the two lamps on the wall side of the room while Alec takes care of the ones on the window side. And it’s simple, a nighttime ritual done in every home across the globe. But as soon as the final bulb goes dark, all ability to think clearly clicks off as well.

 

They stare at one another for what feels like an eternity, the living room separating them like a gulf as the moonlight streaking through the windows illuminates Alec like some sort of angel. And all Magnus wants to do is jump into the water, swim across the expanse and finish what they started. But for some reason, he is frozen.

 

Perhaps sensing this, Alec moves towards him eventually, pulling the moon with him. And for not the first time tonight, Magnus is almost positive this is a dream. Or one of those living paintings, a work of art brought magically to life.

 

He would pinch himself again if he weren’t afraid of making an ass of himself. Or if he could actually move.

 

He tracks every measured step Alec takes, unable to move anything but his eyes as he follows Alec until he is resting in front of him. But once Alec is there he freezes as well, evidently reaching the end of whatever plan he’d managed to concoct in his head.

 

Step one: Turn off lights.

 

Step two: Move to Magnus.

 

Step three: ???

 

Magnus feels naked as Alec’s eyes trail down his body, slowly taking in every aspect as if he is trying to commit them to memory. He actually cannot remember the last time he felt this nervous, in fact, which is ridiculous given what Alec was about to do to him a few hours earlier.

 

Alec seems to be in the same boat, though, judging by the way he is biting the corner of his lower lip, or how his eyes look uncertain when they finally reach Magnus’. And the urge to simply scream the words _just take me already_ wells up inside of him so quickly he almost laughs at the ludicrous nature of the instinct.

 

It reminds him of Nashville, of lying in a dark room with Alec a few short feet away, feeling very much like a virgin bride cowering under the covers. And that would make him laugh as well if not for the fact that he is still a block of ice that has yet to melt.

 

He looks down at Alec’s t-shirt for lack of anything better to do, reaching out to pick at the green fuzz still clinging from the various sweaters he’s worn today as he tips his head down to smell the reindeer concoction still adorning his own chest. Which is another silly thing to do – smelling Alec’s sweater when the man himself is standing in front of him. But Magnus is so lost in his own thoughts that he has no idea what to do here.

 

This is not like him at all. But as Isabelle had said earlier, Alec has a tendency to make people stupid. And right now, Magnus feels dumber than he has in his entire life.  

 

When Alec sucks a deep breath in through his nose, it’s an indication that he is about to do something. Before Magnus can even properly raise his eyes, though, Alec’s lips are pressed against his.

 

It’s a different kiss entirely from any they shared earlier. It’s just a hard press, insistent, almost painful. But it makes Magnus’ body feel like there is fire in his veins as he yet again reaches out to Alec for balance.

 

Alec rests his forehead against Magnus’ when he’s done, his breath ragged like just that one kiss was enough to push him into the deep end before he says, so quietly Magnus almost cannot hear him even from this distance, “You’re real.”

 

A nervous laugh escapes Magnus as he reaches up to card his fingers through Alec’s hair. “So are you.”

 

The quiet, almost broken way Alec replies, “I wasn’t sure,” shatters Magnus’ heart until Alec’s lips resting along the backs of his knuckles begins to put the pieces back together again.

 

It feels familiar, like Alec has done something like this in the past. But it’s a misplaced sensation if ever one existed because Magnus is fairly certain that if Alec had ever kissed his knuckles like this, he would surely remember.

 

He doesn’t know what to say in response to Alec’s declaration. He wants to provide reassurance, to say that he’ll do whatever he can to be real for Alec as long as Alec wants him. But he can’t seem to form the words, so he kisses him again instead. Softly. Slowly. And hopes that’s enough to get his point across.

 

Alec sighs into his mouth a moment later, a smile pressing across his lips as he places a light kiss on the tip of Magnus’ nose before taking Magnus’ hand and leading him silently back towards the bedroom. And truthfully, Magnus has very little idea what to expect when they get there, but he knows he’ll be with Alec, and for him, that is enough.

 

For him, that is _everything._


	12. Chapter 12

Because he had the misfortune of being born him, as soon as Alec has a second to think, everything spirals like a damn whirlpool.

 

He manages to lead Magnus safely back to his bedroom without making an ass of himself, but that’s where his luck runs out. The burst of courage he’d had in the living room that allowed him to kiss Magnus again has since dried up, leaving him lost and uncertain as he ducks into the closet. Only once he’s alone it all just gets _worse_.

 

When he was twelve, he almost single-handedly won his traveling team the championship in his division. Halfway through the playoffs, Jace broke his ankle, which meant everything fell to Alec. And, to put it bluntly, he’d shone like a fucking supernova.

 

A few nights later, there was a gift laid out on his bed. No card, no wrapping, just a Bobby Hull jersey spread atop his red and black sheets.

 

Gifts were always practical in the Lightwood household. New skates and sticks every birthday, the latest under armor every Christmas to keep from freezing while practicing outside. But this wasn’t practical, and it was _real_. The hand-stitched patches, the old, frayed insignia. It was even signed and Alec…

 

For two straight hours, he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. And even then, it was only so he could drape it over a chair where it would remain unmoved for weeks.

 

He still has the jersey, framed in his guest bedroom, but in the eleven years since he’s never been able to properly wrap his head around its existence. Around something given to him simply for the sake of giving it.

 

It’s not entirely unlike the way he’s feeling right now as he stares at the spare blankets and pillows stacked neatly in the corner of his walk-in closet and wonders if he should offer to sleep on the couch.

 

_Don_ _’_ _t be a fucking idiot, Lightwood_ , he reprimands himself as he runs both palms hard over his face.

 

Magnus isn’t here for a sleepover, he’s here to _sleep_ _over_. Or under. Or where-the-fuck-ever. What happened the last time they were in this room together is a pretty clear indication of that intent. But even though it had been as real as the jersey – Alec can still taste Magnus’ skin if he focuses hard enough, so he knows he didn’t hallucinate it – he’s still having trouble believing it.

 

Or believing _in_ _it_ might be a better way of putting it.

 

The longer he stays in the closet the harder this is going to be, though, so he changes quickly into a fresh t-shirt and a pair of mesh shorts and grabs some spares that don’t look too dingy before exiting back into his bedroom.

 

Magnus rises immediately from where he’d been sitting patiently on the end of Alec’s bed, already free of the reindeer sweater, his expression hidden in the folds of moonlight pouring through the open curtains.

 

“I thought you might want something… you know… more comfortable to wear,” Alec says, stumbling through his words like a Grade A moron as he reaches out to hand Magnus the spare clothes, just like he did in Nashville.

 

The clothes Magnus kept, and the shirt Magnus was _wearing_ when Alec had passed out in his lap two nights ago.

 

Shit, was that only two nights ago? It would feel like a fucking eternity if the pain radiating out from his left eye wasn’t a sharp reminder of how little time has passed.

 

He’s doing it again, though, offering clothes, and there’s a moment where Magnus stares sort of oddly at said clothes. A stare that makes Alec wish he’d grabbed the pillows and blankets after all. But then he’s reaching back and taking them with a quiet, “Thank you,” that makes every single muscle between Alec’s neck and hips constrict.

 

Due to the fact that he really, _really_ wants to watch Magnus change into his clothes, Alec circles to the other side of the bed, stretches out with his back against the headboard and turns on the TV. And he doesn’t realize just how tired he is until he has a chance to sit down. The exhaustion hitting him like a wave, taking his breath away momentarily as he stares resolutely at the screen.

 

He really, _really_ wants a lot of things right now, but they’re all things Magnus is going to have to offer. So if he wants Alec to see him change he’ll move into Alec’s periphery. And if he doesn’t…

 

Magnus shifts a few feet down the length of the bed as he takes off his pants, teetering in the process and needing to reach out to the bed for balance like he’s just as worn out as Alec is. His tight black boxer briefs clearly visible under the tails of his button-up as Alec flips through the channels and pretends he gives an actual fuck about what’s on TV. But once he’s in Alec’s cutoff jogging pants, it’s the shirt that really does him in.

 

Watching Magnus undo the same buttons Alec had kissed his way past just a few short hours ago is enough to unravel any shred of sanity he still possessed.  

 

“You, uh, have an early flight, yeah?” Alec asks, his voice cracking slightly in the process as he settles on _It_ _’_ _s a Wonderful Life_ just as George is going into the water.

 

“Do you still need to go back to the hotel to pack or anything?”

 

“No,” Magnus says, his voice becoming muffled as he pulls another one of Alec’s black t-shirts on, arms first. “Raphael and I were planning to go out after the party, so I made sure to pack and leave my luggage at the front desk so I could just swing by and pick it up on the way to the airport if I ended up going home with-”

 

He stops dead, his head still frozen, tucked inside the shirt as his voice literally dies like someone hit the power switch.

 

“It’s okay, Magnus, you can finish the sentence,” Alec says, more calmly than he’d expect given the spike of jealousy that flashed through his chest at Magnus’ words.

 

“Alec, I’m _so_ _sorry_ ,” Magnus sighs, turning to face Alec but still refusing to come out of his hiding place. And something about that makes the jealousy melt away in a fit of giggles.

 

He’s actually fucking giggling. What a night.

 

“It really is okay,” he says through his own unexpected laughter as he puts down the remote so he can crawl to the other side of the bed, something like courage coursing through his veins again, getting stronger the closer he gets to his destination as something like pain spreads through his long-abused muscles.

 

Once he’s at the edge, he rises to his knees, reaches out and tugs the shirt down, letting his fingers trail through the mass of messed up hair left in the shirt’s wake before gripping lightly behind Magnus’ ears.

 

“I don’t care where you were planning to end up tonight,” he says one hundred percent honestly as he drags his thumbs over the lines of Magnus’ cheekbones.

 

Magnus just frowns at him.

 

“I’m being serious, Magnus,” he continues, his grip tightening like he’s afraid Magnus will slip away from him if he doesn’t hold on.

 

“We’re both adults here. And it’s not like I’ve been giving you any reason to hold out.”

 

“Alec,” Magnus tries to say as his palms slip slowly up Alec’s forearms until they’re resting over the backs of his hands. But his voice is still too apologetic, so Alec continues with his point.

 

“I have no idea why you waited this long, but whatever the reason, I _honestly_ don’t give a flying fuck where you thought you’d spend tonight. I’m just grateful you’re spending it _here_.”

 

Magnus still looks like he wants to argue, but his voice is softer than Alec has ever heard it when his shoulders slump and he says, “There’s no place else I’d rather be.”

 

Alec pauses a beat to let that sink in. “I believe you.”

 

His response is the correct one, judging by the smile it brings to Magnus’ face – soft and small at first, but pressing wider as the word, “Good,” slips from between his lips and all of a sudden Alec _needs_ them. He needs Magnus’ lips on his lips, Magnus’ hands on his body. And so he all but moans the words, “Come here,” and drags Magnus down until they’re tangled on the bed, sore muscles be damned.

 

They both only seem to be capable of making out lazily for a while, taking advantage of the fact that they literally have all the time in the world. Not tonight, of course. There’s a flight to Los Angeles for Magnus and brunch with his parents for Alec somewhere on the other side of sunrise. But right here, right now, the night is theirs. The moment is theirs. And Alec is completely content with taking his damn time with it.

 

“Shit, I almost forgot, I have a present for you,” he says at one point, his mind half taken up with the wrapped box on his nightstand and half with the way Magnus’ lips have been tracing the tattoo on his hip for the last ten minutes at least.

 

“I don’t have anything for you,” Magnus says to the tattoo in a clear indication of how much he doesn’t want to stop what he’s doing.

 

His groan only confirms that fact as Alec rolls him slowly to the side. Now that he’s got the gift in his head, he won’t be able to stop thinking about it until it’s given away. And based on their current trajectory, Alec wants his _full_ attention on whatever might be coming next.

 

“I think those sunglasses qualify for at least three years of Christmas _and_ birthday gifts,” he says as Magnus rises reluctantly to a sitting position and Alec hands off the present he wrapped five times just to get the corners right.

 

“It’s nothing big. It’s just something... something I wanted to do.”

 

Between the frown on his lips and the single raised eyebrow, Magnus’ expression is a study in contradictions as his gaze slides from Alec’s face to the box resting in his lap. His fingers running lightly over the silver paper like he’s trying to memorize the snowflake inlays spread across it.

 

“Just open it,” Alec pushes, his voice caught between excitement and nervousness. And almost like he was waiting for permission, Magnus does just as he was told.

 

Despite knowing exactly what’s beyond the wrapping paper, Alec can still feel a sense of anticipation somehow wafting off of Magnus and over him. Which is why he holds his breath the entire time it takes Magnus to open it.

 

“I swiped it on your first night here,” he says, referring to the puck he’d had framed in a glass box, the mahogany base polished to such a deep shine that it manages to catch the moonlight silhouetting Magnus as he traces his fingers over the name plate in silent wonder.

 

_Magnus Bane’s First Goal as a Blackhawk_

“I meant to give it to you after the game, but things got a little... you know,” he continues, referring to the way he’d blown up at the reporters before he’d even had a chance to shower.

 

Magnus saved him that night. And, if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s been saving him ever since.

 

“So anyway, I figured since I waited this long, I might as well do it right. It’s signed by everyone.”

 

He reaches out again, turning the box around so Magnus can see the back of the puck, covered in the silver signatures of half of the team.

 

On the front, Alec’s name is not only front and center, but it’s quite a bit larger than everyone else’s. One of the perks of being captain is that you get to sign first.

 

“I know it’s not six hundred dollar Aviators,” Alec says, his confidence leeching out of his voice the longer Magnus remains silent. “But-”

 

“It’s perfect,” Magnus interrupts, his eyes sort of glassy when he lifts his head like he’s looking at something far away and out of focus.

 

“Thank you, Alexander.”

 

When Magnus leans over to kiss him, there’s something new in it, something warm that bleeds through Alec’s veins. And the thought occurs to him that he could do this forever and never get tired of it. Never want something else, something more, because somehow, some way, he’s found _it._

He’s not entirely sure what _it_ is yet, but the way his insides settle with the kiss, untying knots so old and twisted he assumed they were a permanent fixture, assures him that he’s found something he’s needed for possibly his whole life.

 

It’s the kind of discovery that is usually life-shattering, but right now it’s just freaking warm as hell. 

 

“I have something else for you,” Alec says sleepily when Magnus pulls away, his eyelids heavier than normal as he trails the backs of his knuckles over Magnus’ cheek.

 

Magnus kisses his lips once, softly. “You’re going to give me a complex.”

 

Alec laughs. Not the giggle of earlier but something different again. Something new and so, _so_ _warm_.

 

“No, this one is completely free. It’s Raphael and Simon.”

 

Magnus wraps his fingers over the sides of Alec’s neck and leans back further, his eyes scrunched down in suspicion.

 

“I am not sure what you’re implying, Alexander, but I think I’d like to keep _this_ just me and you.”

 

His laugh deepens, all the way into his gut when he replies, “Don’t be gross. I was talking about the wedding.”

 

Magnus quirks his head in a way that’s... well fuck it, it’s adorable as hell. An expression that makes it impossible for Alec _not_ to hold Magnus’ face in his hands when he says, “Remember the one I told you about? That I had to break up in Vegas last year? It was Raphael. And Simon.”

 

Alec can track the realization as it dawns on Magnus’ face, twisting his lips into a smile so wide it looks painful as he says, “You’re _shitting_ me,” and shoves Alec back onto the bed.

 

Alec stretches out, linking his fingers behind his head and puffing his chest out proudly. “No, I am most definitely _not_ shitting you.”

 

“If you’re lying to me, Lightwood,” Magnus warns as he crawls on top of Alec, straddling his hips and pinning his shoulders so effectively Alec wouldn’t be able to move even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. He _really fucking doesn’t._

 

“Scout’s honor,” he says even though he never had the time nor the childhood to be a Boy Scout. “One hundred percent, Grade A truth.”

 

“Are they… have they,” Magnus starts to ask, searching for the right words.

 

“Are they screwing each other?” Alec finishes with yet another laugh. “I don’t think so. They were just really, incredibly drunk.”

 

Magnus leans back at that and casts his eyes up to the ceiling, his smile turning mischievous. “I cannot _wait_ to give Raphael shit for this. After everything he has put me through.”

 

“Hold up a second,” Alec says, moving one of his now-free arms so he can grab Magnus’ chin and force his gaze to return to Alec’s face. “You can’t tell him you know. In fact, you can’t tell _anyone_ you know.”

 

“I’m sorry, darling, but you have to make that deal _before_ you divulge the information.”

 

“Well I’m sorry as well, _darling_ ,” Alec counters, the word _darling_ tripping off his tongue like a dare. “But you’re forgetting that bedroom rules apply in this situation.”

 

“Bedroom rules?” Magnus asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“Yes, bedroom rules. The ones that state that whatever is said in bed,” Alec explains, patting the mattress next to him for effect, “stays in bed.”

 

Magnus pauses to consider that for a moment before narrowing his eyes and hissing the word, “Bastard,” in the general direction of Alec’s smug ass grin.

 

Any ire he’s feeling, though, is flushed out in the way Alec rolls him over again, going with the motion this time so that Magnus’ body is sufficiently pinned beneath his own. 

 

Their kissing is frantic, from lips to necks to cheeks then back again to lips, rarely stopping in one place for too long. And Alec would say he feels like a teenager again if he ever did anything even remotely this freeing before he turned twenty. If he ever did anything this freeing _ever_. So Alec just feels like someone else’s teenage version of themselves, Jace maybe, loose and desperate and aching and it’s basically the most wonderful thing he’s ever felt in his entire life and he never, ever, _ever_ wants to let it go.

 

That feeling must be conveyed in his expression some time later. He’s stopped kissing Magnus long enough to catch his breath and stare down at him, his lips red and swollen from what Alec’s been doing to him for almost an hour, judging by the progression of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ in the background. And something strange must be happening on his face because Magnus shifts beneath him to get a better look.

 

“Why the funny look?” he asks, dragging one finger down Alec’s jawline so slow it’s agonizing.

 

He doesn’t even think before he opens his mouth and the words, “Nothing, I’m just happy,” come spilling out.

 

As soon as he says it, he wishes he could take it back. It sounds so stupid to him, which means it must sound stupid to Magnus, too. An assumption only further justified by the way Magnus is frowning at him again and all he can think is _way to kill the mood, Alec_.

 

“You sound surprised,” Magnus says quietly, clearly implying that Alec sounds surprised to be happy right now. And he knows he should just shut his mouth and change the subject. That when he tries to explain things, he inevitably goes off the rails and crashes in a ball of flames. But Magnus is still frowning and Alec will do anything in an attempt to make that look disappear.

 

So he says, “I am,” which also sounds monumentally stupid coming from his mouth at a time like this. “I mean, I’m not surprised that _you_ make me happy, that I thought you wouldn’t make me happy or something, I just never... I never thought I’d get to have something like this. Someone like you, I mean. Someone just mine.”

 

He slams his eyes shut and bites his lip before continuing.

 

“Not that I think you’re _mine_ , that I have you in the sense that you, like, belong to me or something, I just-”

 

“Alec?” Magnus interrupts. And his tone is far enough from his frown that Alec risks opening his eyes again.

 

“Yeah?”

 

He smiles then, Magnus does. His voice as smooth as honey when he replies, “Shut up and kiss me.”

 

Alec smiles too, all the way to his freaking toes before saying, “Shutting up and kissing you,” and then doing just that.

 

They make out some more like it’s the theme of the freaking night. Make out, pause, allow Alec to be awkward, make out again. Only this time when things cycle back to laziness, it’s Magnus that’s doing the interrupting.

 

“I am, you know,” he says like he thinks Alec is going to know what he’s talking about. Which he doesn’t. Because all Alec had been thinking before they paused was _why are we still wearing clothes_ and so anything else beyond that is just freaking beyond _him_.

 

“You’re what?” he mumbles from where his lips are pressed to Magnus’ pulse point, his blood pounding furiously against Alec’s teeth. 

 

“Yours,” he says cautiously. “For however long you want.”

 

Alec pauses for a moment to give himself time to think of how he wants to play this, opting for a teasing direction over the more honest, second choice as he pushes his hand under Magnus’ shirt and says, “That’s a dangerous offer to make a man like me.”

 

For a second he thinks that Magnus will continue the play, make some sort of comment about how he likes to live dangerously. But as soon as Magnus’ stomach muscles tense beneath Alec’s hand he knows he’s about to go off script.

 

“I trust you,” he says, and Alec just fucking freezes.

 

“I can count on one hand the number of people I truly trust,” Magnus continues, his face turned towards the ceiling, his voice quiet, low, and a bit lost. “And still have fingers to spare, but I do.”

 

Magnus reaches down then, using one hand to lift Alec’s face up while his other one grips Alec’s wrist and tugs, sliding Alec’s palm up beneath his shirt until it’s resting over his heart.

 

“I _trust you_.”

 

Alec feels like he can’t breathe, like his throat is closing up, his lungs are deflating and any hope he has of taking another breath is just flying out the fucking window as he looks down at Magnus, his eyes so bare they make Alec shiver. And it’s hard, thinking what he’s thinking, planning to say what he’s planning to say, especially without breath. But when Alec opens his mouth, the words, “I trust you, too,” pour out like they were made to be spoken inches from Magnus’ lips.

 

They’re gritty, like they’ve been dragged behind his SUV over every gravel road in the state, but they’re _true_. Maybe the truest thing he’s ever said. And they’re only for Magnus.

 

He squeezes his fist like he’s trying to grab Magnus’ heart, keep it tight in his grip, let him know he won’t break that trust. Won’t fuck with it and throw it away like Camille. And then he takes one last shaky breath and kisses Magnus gently like he’s afraid the dream will shatter if he presses too hard.   

 

_Please don’t let me break him_ , he thinks as the kiss deepens. Which is probably an odd thing to think on just their first night together but there it is nonetheless.

 

More than anything else, Alec just doesn’t want to fuck this up.

 

He uses his hand placement to tug on the shirt Magnus is wearing, causing Magnus to break away from the kiss so Alec can slip worn black cotton over his head. And then it’s Magnus’ hands on the hem of Alec’s shirt, desperately pushing upward until Alec takes the hint and sheds his shirt as well.

 

They’ve been shirtless together too many times to count at this point, but never like this, never alone, in a bedroom. Never when Alec could form their bodies together, feel his skin warm against Magnus’, feel Magnus’ breath heaving against his own bare ribs.

 

There’s an electric current running through his entire body, sparking from every point of contact, every inch of skin touching skin. And the sensation is so overwhelming that he’s forced to pull back from it like he’s afraid if he doesn’t, he won’t have any skin left when this is all said and done.

 

He presses his lips to Magnus’ neck, sucks along his collarbone then moves down his chest the same way he had earlier tonight, giving each rib, each muscle the careful attention it deserves as he continues mapping out the terrain in his head.

 

Two times isn’t enough to memorize every detail, but he can see a lot more expeditions in his future and so he’s fine for now with the imperfect recollection this is creating.

 

He drags his teeth over sharp hipbones, relishing the way Magnus moans helplessly in response, his fingers fisted in Alec’s hair but not to guide him so much as just to hold on. But as soon as he wraps his hands over the two thin waistbands separating him from even more skin, he stops.

 

He tips his head up, waiting for Magnus to do the same before he asks, “Can I?”

 

His fists tighten with the question, as do Magnus’, responding to Alec’s broken voice. A tone that’s perfectly echoed by Magnus when he nods and says, “Anything, Alec. You can have anything… anything you want.”

 

Something makes him surge up at that, folding his body into Magnus’ again so he can kiss him sharply, bordering on the edge of pain before hissing, “Just you. All of you. I want every single fucking part of you.”

 

The words sound harsh and maybe they are, but that doesn’t make them any less true. There is not one part of Magnus, known or unknown, that Alec doesn’t want to lay claim to. That he doesn’t want to sew into the lining of his fucking _life_. And feeling that is one thing – one _monumental fucking thing_ – but being able to say it out loud?

 

Who is this person? And what has he done with Alec Lightwood?

 

He moves down again, adrenaline pumping through his veins as Magnus arches his hips to allow Alec to remove the shorts and tight black boxer briefs. And then he’s there. Magnus is _there_ , every single inch of him, laid bare just for Alec.

 

There is a fair chance that Alec is having an aneurysm. But before he can sort that out, get his lips around Magnus the way he’s been wanting to for months, Magnus bites out the word, “Wait.”

 

Because Alec is a decent human being, he does exactly as Magnus asks, even going so far as to let Magnus push him off of him. Magnus doesn’t stop there, though, not until Alec is resting against his headboard like he had been earlier.

 

As much as he likes a good blow job, he was really looking forward to being on the giving end. And he’s about to say that, but something about the way Magnus’ lips and tongue return to his tattoo as he lifts Alec’s hips and disabuses him of the rest of his clothes locks his voice firmly in his throat.

 

And then… Magnus leaves. Not the room, thankfully, but the bed, disappearing over the far side of it so he can dig through the pockets of his pants, judging by the sound. Returning once more to the bed with his bounty before straddling Alec’s hips like it’s Vegas all over again. Only this is _so fucking different_ from Vegas.

 

“Is this okay?” Magnus asks warily as he produces the condom and lube he’d collected as an offering. And… yeah… he’s definitely having a fucking aneurysm here.

 

“Fuck yes,” Alec hisses, a ragged, “ _Please_ ,” slipping from his lips when he leans forward and presses his forehead to Magnus’ chest.

 

Magnus makes a choking sound, bordering on a sob, not like Alec can blame him. He’d probably be making the same exact sound if Magnus had just begged to have sex with him.

 

It’s too much. It really is _too damn much_ for his mind to handle. So he shuts his eyes and kisses Magnus as fiercely as he can because if he spends one second watching what Magnus is doing to himself behind his back – watching the way he’s begun opening himself up, preparing to take Alec in – this will all be over before it really even starts.

 

There’ll probably be marks left behind on Magnus’ biceps after this, shaped just like Alec’s fingers. But he’ll apologize for those later. Thanks to the noises Magnus is moaning into his mouth, deeper and more desperate the longer he goes, the best Alec can do right now is hold on.

 

When Magnus is finished, he puts the condom on Alec and slicks him up, and then he’s leaning back, arching his hips and sliding Alec inside of him and everything inside of Alec’s mind just shuts the fuck down.

 

It’s never been this quiet before. There’s always a million things running through his head at any given moment, so much _noise_ , but right now there’s just… nothing.

 

Nothing but Magnus’ hands, one on Alec’s shoulder and the other on his opposite ribs for balance, pitch black nails digging into his skin.

 

Nothing but Magnus’ body, on him, around him, taking over everything else as Alec struggles to find enough air to fill his lungs.

 

Nothing but the way Magnus is moving, rhythmic almost like a dance, sweat beading on his brow as Alec’s tongue darts out to drag along his own bottom lip.

 

It’s him and Magnus and nothing else.

 

Magnus’ strength seems to weaken the closer they get, his body practically dissolving in Alec’s lap, so Alec just holds on tighter. One hand behind Magnus’ neck and the other on the small of his back as he helps guide Magnus along. The rhythm still pounding throughout his entire body, tripping his heartbeat as it crashes in his chest.

 

When he feels the pressure building inside of him, he risks letting go of Magnus’ neck so he can reach down and take Magnus in his hand, stroking him in time to the roll of Magnus’ hips. Fast, then slow. Fast, then slow. Fast, then slow until the waves finally break.

 

He’s not sure who comes first, him or Magnus, but he is sure that he’s just stepped over one of those invisible lines in life that everyone talks about. The ones where everything that comes after it is a different hue than what came before. The certainty of that fact settling deep into his cleared-out consciousness as Magnus slides off of him and slumps against his chest.

 

They stay like that for a while, trying to catch their breath before sticky discomfort forces them to clean up and retrieve their boxers. But then they’re right back in bed together, lying side by side, still breathless as their fingers entwine between them.

 

“So what do we do now?” Alec asks because he’s him again. He might be a slightly lighter shade of gray, but he’s still _him_ , complete with his eight thousand spinning thoughts.

 

The silence was nice while it lasted.

 

Magnus laughs at his question. “I know I am a highly-trained athlete, but even I don’t have the stamina for another round yet.”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Alec says, releasing Magnus’ hand so he can rise to one elbow, look at him when he adds, “I meant about me. And the whole Lydia thing. It’s not… it’s not fair that you’re out and I’m not.”

 

The words are incredibly hard to spit out, but Magnus just laughs at them again which is… unexpected.

 

“That’s what you’re worrying about?”

 

Alec nods.

 

“Right now, after we just had sex for the _first_ time – pretty mind blowing sex, I might add – this is what you are choosing to think about?”

 

“I’m not _choosing_ anything,” he says uncomfortably as his eyes thin to practical slits. “I just can’t help but think about it. I mean, even if we’re not technically a couple, we are _something_ , but I just don’t know if I’m ready to-”

 

“Alec,” Magnus interrupts, his voice at once sharp enough to get Alec’s attention but soft enough to keep it.

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t have to decide right now.”

 

“I know, but-”

 

“Are there reporters here?” Magnus interrupts again.

 

Alec actually looks around the room before realizing he’s an idiot. “No.”

 

“Have your parents shown back up?”

 

He shivers this time, but manages to keep his eyes locked on Magnus. “No.”

 

“Then do me a favor and just put this on the back burner. Please?”

 

Alec bites his lower lip before asking, “For how long?”

 

Magnus shrugs and smiles. “As long as you need to. I’m in no hurry.”

 

“Why?” Alec asks because he’s _Alec_ , and when people do nice things for him, his gut punch reaction is still to look for the catch. Even though he’s talking to Magnus, the one person in his life that has never come with conditions.

 

“Why what?” he asks, genuinely confused.

 

“Why don’t you want me out there with you? In the spotlight?”

 

Magnus sighs softly before trailing a finger over Alec’s brow, tracing around the bruises still coloring half his face. “Because I know what it’s like.”

 

“So?” Alec pushes.

 

“So you have enough hard things in your life right now and I don’t want to be the cause of another one.”

 

Alec is about to argue the idea of Magnus being the cause of anything other than joy but Magnus just cuts him off again, this time before he can even get a single word out.

 

“I can wait, Alec. I _want_ to wait.”

 

“But,” Alec says, still wanting to push this. But Magnus just reaches out to place his hand over Alec’s mouth like he had in the closet, back when this whole thing started.

 

“Did you hear the news report?” he asks, his face serious all of a sudden as he looks up at Alec and removes his hand.

 

“What news report?”

 

“The one that said there was an escaped panda somewhere in this bedroom. Have you seen it?”

 

Before Alec can ask him what the hell he’s talking about, Magnus is curling into him, wrapping his arms and legs around Alec’s body and clinging to it like it’s the only thing holding him up even though they’re both still lying down.

 

“Just hold me,” Magnus sighs into Alec’s neck. And his voice is so soft and warm Alec wouldn’t be able to resist it even if he wanted to.

 

So he wraps his arms and legs around Magnus as well until all that’s left of them is a tangled mass in the middle of the bed.

 

“What’s this, like a double panda?” Alec asks quietly, his words muffled by the way his lips are loosely pressed to the top of Magnus’ head, his hair tickling his nose.

 

Magnus tightens his grip, burrowing further into the crook of Alec’s neck. “That is precisely what we will call it.”

 

“It’ll be just ours,” Alec says because he wants that more than anything. A vast expanse of _just ours_ with Magnus.

 

It’s something that Magnus seems to want as well, judging by the almost dreamy way he echoes, “Just ours,” before pressing a soft kiss to Alec’s shoulder.

 

“Merry Christmas, Alec,” he adds as Clarence finally gets his wings in the background.

 

And the smile on Alec’s face is the biggest one yet when he replies, “Merry Christmas to you, too, Magnus.”

 

It may have just started, but this is already the best Christmas Alec has ever had. And yeah, there’s a lot more to come, and not all of it is going to be pretty. Magnus may not want to talk about it tonight but they’ll have to eventually. They’ll have to deal with what this means, what _they mean_ in the real word eventually. But he is right about one thing. Right now, it can wait.

 

Because waiting is something they’ve both been doing for far too long, waiting for a chance just like this. And it’s a huge comfort to Alec, wrapped around Magnus like a freaking panda, knowing that whatever comes next, they’ll be facing it together. For tonight, for _now_ , that’s more than enough.

 

It’s _everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! I can't believe I finally finished it! I wanted to start this note by just thanking everyone that came on this ride with me. This story literally saved my life in ways I'm still trying to understand, and having all of you lovely people there beside me only helped in that regard. So thank you. THANK YOU.
> 
> I still have a lot of plot left for this story. Enough to write probably two more novel-length fics. Whether I'll actually be able to write them or not remains to be seen. I hope I can. There is also a slight chance that I might add a few chapters to this one and flip it to an original story to self-publish (poor Star is dirt poor). If I do that, I've been told that I should pull the fic from online first, so if you like the story (and I REALLY hope you do!), make sure to save a PDF or what-have-you, just in case. I'm sure I'll be blogging about it on Tumblr if I go that route (baneismyexistence), so if you're wondering about any of that, come check me out there. Or just come and chat with me. I love chatting with new, friendly folks. 
> 
> Seriously, though, this fic was just supposed to be a silly, fun hockey story and somehow it turned into the best therapy I've ever had. I've met so many wonderful people through it as well, and I just... I don't know. I just want to thank the story, I guess, and each and every one of you and say I love you and now I'm going to go before I start getting too sappy.
> 
> Catch y'all on the flip side!


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